Two Years a Nomad: a Recap
Two years ago today, I walked off into the sun.
It was July 10th, 2015. It felt like a beginning.
I was finally going to start living the life that I wanted to. It was going to be easy because it finally was what I’d chosen.
I’d basically dropped out of my Master’s degree after realizing that I didn’t want to be in a system where I was working to get grades that didn’t matter, given to me by people whose respect I didn’t care about. I’d done it for long enough that I felt like I was finally done.
Done with school. Done with grades. Done working on things I didn’t like, for results that didn’t matter, to find a job I didn’t want.
It took a lot of tears, anger, frustration, defensiveness, and passive-aggressive posturing for me to feel confident in my decision, but I’d decided. I did it. I. Was. Done.
On July 10th, I had a ticket booked from Geneva, Switzerland — where I grew up — to Barcelona. That first week of travel was all planned out: I was going to go from Barcelona to Lisbon somehow — that part wasn’t planned — while taking the time to visit a friend living in Barcelona and my foster aunt, who lived in Begur, a small coastal town a couple of hours away from the city. From Lisbon, I’d fly to Brazil, where I’d have a transfer to Asunciòn, Paraguay’s capital city, where I’d be meeting with a longtime friend and staying with her a few weeks. After that, I was headed back to Brazil.
I did it.
On July 10th, 2015, I hugged my mom goodbye and walked from her home to the airport, my backpack packed and loaded with all the things I was sure I needed for a life of travel.
I felt light.

I was free.

I kind-of-sort-of-probably knew that making this choice didn’t mean that life would suddenly get easier. Theoretically, I even believed that I would still be challenged, still deal with my emotional ups-and-downs, still have arguments, still — probably more so, even — get heartbroken and, even without having a home any more — by choice — get homesick.
Interestingly, that last one never really happened.
Everything else, though? It totally did.

I’d rationalized that I wasn’t running away from home, that I was running towards something.
The latter might be true, but the former was definitely wrong. I was definitely running, both away and towards something.
When I traveled, my problems were right there with me. In fact, they felt entirely unavoidable in comparison to when my life was sedentary. I still got depressed. I was more active and dynamic overall, but once I settled down, I’d still go from being too busy to doing nothing at all. I still isolated myself, I didn’t necessarily do more just because I was traveling.
But from the outside looking in, it seemed like I was “living the life.”

In a sense, I was. It was amazing, I met incredible people and went to incredible places. I learned Spanish in a matter of weeks, made new friends and developed my Portuguese. I gained self-awareness while realizing that the older I get, the more I have to learn. I understood so much more about my depression and really learned the importance of setting my boundaries. I went on one adventure after the other and grew in leaps and bounds.
But it came at a high price.

Fortunately, I was willing to pay it.

And boy was the payout worth it.
