North Korea

North Korea had closed its borders during the Covid pandemic, and for nearly five years, they remained completely shut. By the time my 25th birthday arrived, I had just one country remaining and only a few months left to break NomadMania's record as the youngest person ever to visit every country in the world. Given the circumstances, I'd accepted that the record would slip away. Then, unexpectedly, everything changed.

North Korea announced it would reopen, not for tourism, but for the Pyongyang Marathon. Foreigners would be allowed into the capital if they registered for the race. I immediately signed up for the 10K.

A couple of weeks later, I flew to Beijing to collect my athlete visa, and on April 3rd, 2025, boarded the last flight of my journey around the world. After being stamped into North Korea, NomadMania, whose verification requirements are stricter than those of Guinness World Records, certified me as the youngest person to ever visit every country in the world. To make the moment even more special, I was joined by Harry from the UK, Leon from Germany, Álvaro from Spain, and Rama from Argentina. We'd traveled together through more than 20 countries across five continents, and having them beside me for the last one meant more than I can put into words.

After I got over the disbelief of crossing into my last country, I still had nearly a week ahead of me inside the world's most secretive nation, a place I expected to feel dystopian. In many ways, it was exactly that. Communist propaganda covered entire buildings. Towering statues of Kim Il Sung and Kim Jong Il overlooked the city. Loudspeakers played creepy classical music through the streets at night. But alongside all of that, I also saw something much more familiar. People rode bicycles to work. Couples went on dates in coffee shops. Families spent time together in parks. It was a reminder that even in one of the world's most isolated countries, ordinary people still lived ordinary lives.

And then came race day, the moment we'd all been waiting for. On the morning of the race, Pyongyang was cold and covered in fog. Streets throughout the city had been closed, soldiers stood at nearly every intersection, and thousands of spectators lined the course. As the starting gun went off, it hit me that this was it, the end of my journey.

As I ran through the capital, I found myself reflecting on everything that had brought me there. Every setback, every adventure, every person I'd met had led me to this one moment. I started this journey with debilitating OCD, and despite that, I overcame hundreds of situations that once would have felt impossible. Having faced all of those challenges, I realized OCD no longer had to control the direction of my life. With that realization, I kept running, until I reached a massive stadium for the final stretch. 50,000 spectators chanted and cheered as I crossed the finish line.

There was a lot of poetry in finishing my journey with a race. For such a large part of my life, running felt like the only strategy I had. I ran from my hometown in San Diego, my friends, and my family. But no matter how far I ran, my OCD always found a way to catch up to me. And that's why crossing the finish line in North Korea meant so much to me. Not because of the record, or because the mission was over, but because finally, I didn't feel like I had to run anymore. I was done running.

Finishing my journey wasn’t the end of my progress. OCD is an incurable disorder, but it's highly treatable. Therapy has helped me tremendously, and I'm incredibly fortunate to have the support of so many people around me. And contrary to what I believed growing up, speaking openly about my mental health hasn't brought any shame. It's brought freedom. And ultimately, by accepting it and working on it, I learned perhaps the most important lesson of my entire journey: that peace comes into our lives not by running away from our greatest fears, but by running towards them instead.