Every time I go to Veracruz, I feel like, OK, I am back. When my

Hear the words of Natalia Lafourcade, who declared: “Every time I go to Veracruz, I feel like, OK, I am back. When my feet go to the ground on the earth, I think, ‘This is me, this is home, these are my roots, and now I can go and travel again to wherever you want me to go.’” These words, though spoken softly, ring with the depth of an eternal truth: that the soul must return to its beginning, to the soil from which it was formed, in order to gather strength for the journeys beyond. For without roots, there can be no wings, and without home, there can be no adventure.

The mention of Veracruz is not merely of a place, but of a sanctuary. It is the ground where her identity is anchored, where the memory of ancestors, of childhood, of the rhythms of the land all converge into a song of belonging. When she sets her feet upon its earth, she does not simply touch soil; she touches the very essence of herself. This act of grounding is no small gesture—it is the rejoining of spirit and origin, the reminder that no matter how far we wander, there is a place that whispers: You are mine, and you are whole.

To call a place home is to recognize it as the center of one’s being. It is not the wealth of its buildings nor the glamour of its streets, but the resonance of its spirit with our own. Lafourcade’s words reveal what many travelers know: the more we travel outward, the more we must return inward. Home becomes the wellspring, the fountain that replenishes the heart so that it may give itself again to the world. Without this return, the traveler becomes weary, adrift, and hollow. With it, she is renewed, ready to step forward once more.

History gives us countless mirrors of this truth. Odysseus, though he saw the marvels of Troy and the wonders of foreign lands, longed above all for Ithaca, the small rocky island that was his true dwelling. He knew that the glory of battle and the wisdom of wandering meant little if they were not anchored in home. So too with Veracruz for Lafourcade—it is her Ithaca, her sanctuary, her compass. It gives her the courage to leave, because she knows she can always return.

The mention of roots is powerful. A tree may spread high into the heavens, its branches wide and far, but only because its roots are deep in the earth. So too with people: those who forget their roots may dazzle for a time, but they are easily toppled by storms. Those who remain anchored, who return often to the soil of their beginnings, grow tall, steady, and enduring. Lafourcade reminds us that travel is not escape from roots, but the flowering made possible by them.

Her words also carry a rhythm of balance—between motion and stillness, between departure and return. To travel endlessly is to lose oneself; to stay always in one place is to stagnate. But to return home, renew strength, and then step once more into the world—that is the dance of a full life. It is the rhythm of breath itself: inhale, exhale, return, depart. Veracruz is her breath, her grounding, her reminder that she is whole, even when scattered across distant lands.

The lesson for us is clear: do not forget your roots. No matter how far you wander, no matter how high you rise, return often to the places, the people, and the traditions that made you who you are. In practical terms, this may mean visiting your homeland, honoring your ancestors, remembering the songs and stories of your people. It may mean carrying small rituals of home wherever you go. In doing so, you carry a compass in your soul that will never let you be lost.

Therefore, children of tomorrow, remember the wisdom of Natalia Lafourcade: the journey outward must always be matched by the journey back. Plant your feet in your home, draw strength from your roots, and then step boldly into the world again. For the one who knows where they come from can travel anywhere, endure any distance, and never lose themselves. Roots and wings together make a life complete—without the first, the second cannot endure.