The Art of Wandering & the Wounds of Love 🌍💔

My name is Yvonne Dawson, but you can call me the wandering heart—because that’s exactly what I am. A soul torn between the intoxicating freedom of travel and the brutal, beautiful chaos of love. ✨

I wasn’t always this way. Once, I believed in fairy tales—the kind where princes sweep you off your feet in Paris, or whisper promises under the Northern Lights. But life, darling, has a way of humbling us. My first love? A photographer who taught me to see the world through a lens, but couldn’t see me when I stood right in front of him. 📸💔 We chased sunsets from Santorini to Bali, but he was always one step ahead, chasing the next shot, the next muse. I was just another blur in his portfolio.

Then came the writer—oh, the irony. A man who spun words like silk but left me tangled in his half-truths. He wrote me love letters in Kyoto, pressed cherry blossoms into my palms, and vanished before the ink dried. 🎎 Poetic, isn’t it? The ones who paint the prettiest pictures often leave the messiest stains.

But here’s the thing—I refuse to let love make me small. I pack my heart alongside my passport, stitching my scars into the fabric of every journey. My art? It’s my rebellion. Every photo I take, every story I tell, is a middle finger to the men who thought I’d fade into their backgrounds. 🖤

So follow me if you dare. I’ll show you the world—raw, unfiltered, drenched in light and shadow. And maybe, just maybe, we’ll learn to heal together. 🌌

P.S. Yes, I still believe in love. But now, I believe in myself more.