I once believed that “home” was a term soaked in negativity. Out there — on the journey — was where life unfolded, brimming with thrilling escapades, intriguing individuals, and limitless chances. No monotonous commutes, 30-minute lunch breaks, mind-numbing meetings, or packed to-do lists crammed into a hurried weekend.
Why would anyone desire to be at home, the location where routine seemed to drain your desire to live? It puzzled me.
My initial overseas trip — a holiday to Costa Rica — ignited my passion for travel. For all the reasons stated earlier, I discovered why “vacations” were so idealized in workplace culture. There was a sense of liberation that sharply contrasted with the daily corporate hustle.
Therefore, upon finally leaving my job, I embarked on an expedition to embrace everything the world had in store for as long as my funds allowed.
I mean, who could ever grow weary of life on the road?
Well, I did.
Eventually, I tired of being a full-time wanderer. I yearned for a reliable circle of friends, regular workouts, a bar that recognized my name, a kitchen to cook in, and my own bed.
Suddenly, I recognized that “home” wasn’t a negative term. It merely felt that way to a young, restless spirit for whom adulthood appeared light-years away.
I had come to realize what someone just beginning with romantic ideas about travel could not: Burnout is real. During my first international journey, after 18 months, I reached my limit and chose to shorten my trip. Then, years later, in 2013, I concluded that the nomadic lifestyle was no longer suited for me and decided to cease full-time traveling.
It was time for maturity, I proclaimed. Time to settle down and transition from nomad to… whatever lay ahead.
Yet the temptation of the road — and the hustle of working in travel — continuously drew me back.
As time passed, I navigated two realms: one where I was traveling, yearning for home, and another where I was home, yearning to venture out once more.
There were times when I wished for a duplicate of myself so I could exist in both spaces and fulfill my conflicting desires.
After all, you can’t — and shouldn’t — remain solely in one forever.
Because travel and home are harmonious elements, yin and yang. Lacking one, you can’t truly value the other.
Every traveler encounters a threshold, that moment they glance around and declare, “I’m ready to settle down.” The timing and reasons behind this vary greatly, but I’ve yet to meet a traveler who hasn’t faced this experience. When I began my travels in my twenties, it took me years to reach that realization. But now, a couple of decades later, it strikes me after merely a month.
To manage life, the mind establishes mental shortcuts to aid in processing information. This is why we often take the same route to work daily — it’s simply more straightforward, and it’s why it feels like “you can do it in your sleep.” Because if your brain had to navigate a new route to work every day, it would wear itself thin. Such routines allow us to set much of life on autopilot, conserving energy for work, social interactions, emotions, thoughts, and more.
However, when you travel, you’re redefining life skills daily. There are no mental shortcuts. It requires substantial mental energy to find your way in the world afresh each day, to repack your bag, bid farewell to the person you met yesterday, and venture out again to traverse unfamiliar territories, languages, and individuals as if you were experiencing it all for the first time.
It wears you down.
While a vacation is a brief escape from daily life, long-term travel is an entirely different experience. When you travel for an extended period (or are frequently on the move), there’s no real break. You’re perpetually attempting to solve problems and simultaneously disrupting your routine. Your travel battery depletes.
Yet just as the travel battery requires recharging, our “home” battery does as well.
While some individuals can adhere to the same routine throughout their lives, most of us find it tedious. We seek a reprieve. After a while spent in one location, we start to crave a disruption to the monotony of our daily existence. Work, commutes, errands… day after day, like ants continuously marching.
So we set off to travel again. We embark on an adventure, connect with new people, sample new cuisines, and gather fresh experiences. Perhaps we learn, evolve, and expand our identities. Maybe we’re away for a week or two, or we take a month off. Or we begin working remotely and spend several months away. But ultimately our battery diminishes: we become fatigued, and then we return home once more.