There’s not an easy answer to this week’s Sunday Scribblings question.

What I do know is that if I had been born to parents who were content with surburban American life, instead of to expatriate parents in Greece, I may never have been interested in traveling the world — or at least across the country to New York and Washington, D.C. — with a large group of other 12 year olds without their parents.

Without my young East Coast adventures, I may never have felt inspired to make a two-week pilgrimage to France with my peers from high school French class.

Without the confidence of having traveled in Europe as an adolescent, I may never have ventured off to Nicaragua for three weeks after Hurricane Mitch as a college student, spending my first Christmas away from my family.

Without the intense longing to “do something” that was sparked by Central America, I may never have even dreamed of living and volunteering in Uganda for a year after college.

Without the frustration brought about by both my inability to “do something” for the people suffering in the AIDS clinic I volunteered for, and by the lack of any kind of anti-retrovirals available in the country (in 1999 that was still the reality in Uganda), I may never have decided to pursue a Master of Public Health degree.

If it wasn’t for an early acceptance into Columbia’s School of Public Health, I may never have abandoned my Northwest lifestyle and move to New York City.

If I hadn’t moved to New York, I may never have met all the fantastic and motivated and passionate friends I have now, who have since scattered themselves all over the globe in the pursuit of a world where health is considered a human right.

And finally, I may never met my wonderful boyfriend, whose own path sent him across the sea to New York, where our paths first crossed.

You can read more Sunday Scribblings here.