Back in 2022, while holing up in a cabin in the rural highlands of Madagascar, a rather unsettling thought crossed my mind for the first time since I began nomading in July 2020.
At some point during my nine days in that cabin, I realized that I kind of missed having the sense of normalcy that comes with staying in one place. I'm not talking about material luxuries––just some basic level of predictability, familiarity, and consistency in terms of my routine, surroundings, relationships, and expenses. Had I become jaded by travel?
Cape Town, South Africa, where I had based myself for six months before that five-week trip, had delivered on all these fronts. My life there had been satisfying enough. I had a daily work routine, a lovely apartment in a prime location, rekindled my love of Muay Thai after a nearly two-year break, and a sense of community. Being able to have coffee a few times a week with the person who's now my best friend was nourishing and reassuring.
I was also relieved that I didn't have to adjust to a new Airbnb every few weeks, devote brain power to navigating a new place, and spend nontrivial amounts of cash on flights, checked baggage, and all the related travel costs that add up over time.
After that trip to Madagascar, I ended up returning to Cape Town with the idea of potentially calling it home, but within a handful of months, the stir-craziness resurfaced. I shoved all traces of that longing for stability to the nether regions of my mind and set off with renewed determination. I'm a badass solo traveller, I reminded myself. We ain't done yet.
That was in January 2023.
"How's life on the run?" a friend texted me as we caught up earlier this year, alluding to my lifestyle as something more typical of an escaped convict than a digital nomad. I laughed in response, but his question stuck with me.
All this time, I've been well aware that in addition to the more "pure" and "noble" motivations to travel—experiencing new cultures, volunteering, etc.—I've been using travel as a form of distraction or escapism, uprooting myself when the same unwanted thoughts arose or grief and loneliness crept up on me. I was definitely an adult runaway, just one with a fully remote job that kept me afloat.
You face certain inevitabilities when you travel for years on end—the less sexy truths that don't come up much on Instagram.
The exciting, romantic honeymoon period of endless carefree adventures eventually mellows out (or at least ebbs and flows). I find myself searching for greater purpose in my travels now, as aimless wandering has lost much of its initial appeal. This isn't to say that my senses of wonder and curiosity are gone—I've just known for a while now that ultimate freedom doesn't equal no problems, but a different set of problems.
I'm all too familiar with feeling lonely and estranged from friends and family, and not only in the form of geographical distance. Of course, I've had many memorable moments of connection, joy, gratitude, and inspiration along my travels, but those moments are fleeting.
Friendships fade with the turnover of places, and deeper connections—whether romantic or platonic—take time and effort to develop. But on the other hand, I'm perpetually drawn to conversations with strangers, dialogues that travel facilitates. That love fuelled my podcast (currently on pause).
As I lie low in Vietnam, contemplating my next move, I admit that I don’t feel pulled to go anywhere in particular. Every direction on the map feels the same right now.
When you have nowhere to be, knowing where to go next becomes difficult. But you have to go somewhere. Visas run out, and if home is on your back rather than in a fixed location, like me, you're forced to make a random decision. Is travel somehow made more meaningful when you have an actual home to return to? When travel becomes normal, the baseline for travel-derived stimulation and excitement just seems to get higher and higher.
I realize this freedom to roam on a whim is a luxurious problem to have, but I'm convinced that the paradox of choice is real––having too many choices can lead to indecision and unhappiness. I'm starting to think a few constraints, even if self-imposed, are needed to feel sane.
To test this theory, I decided to live in Chiang Mai, Thailand, for a five-month chunk of 2024 (between two separate visits). It's a place I've returned to several times over the years for Muay Thai training and one that I'm comfortable and familiar with. It was another home-base test run after my failed Cape Town experiment.
My purpose was clear: train Muay Thai as much as my body could handle and fight in one of the local stadiums at least once a month. Beyond training, I was too tired to do anything but work (even that was a struggle at times), but narrowing my focus to those two things and limiting my options––work and training, day in and day out––paradoxically felt freeing. Freedom from indecision and aimless wandering. Could this be my new norm?
It might not come as a surprise that I've scrapped that idea since leaving Thailand in early November. I had to leave because my visa expired, but, after I left, I didn't feel the urge to immediately turn around and go back, like I thought I would. Although the experience was fulfilling, being a pro fighter was never my career goal. Maybe it was all just another distraction.
How do I harmonize my need for routine, deeper and longer-lasting relationships, and stability with the need for freedom and adventure? How do I reinvigorate my travel experiences with a greater sense of purpose at age 38? Or is it time to commit to one place, at least as a base? Clearly, I have some questions to answer as the year comes to an end. I'm getting tired of having an existential crisis every few months.
Here's hoping for a bit more inner peace in 2025.
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