Travel Diary
Less is More
A Modern Odyssey from Burnout to Bliss
I jogged down the many steps today that lead from our hundred year old home in a tiny village on the Greek island of Lesvos and took a cute video of my boyfriend riding his bike down the hill. I tucked my phone back in the sleek pocket of my Athleta running tights and zipped it up. My brand new trail runners a stark contrast to the centuries old cobbles beneath my feet. The same sun that rose and set over Plato and Aristotle over 2500 years ago is the same one that warms my skin. Here I am standing on the shoulders of giants, craving the same simplicity — the luxury of time to think, to wonder, to speak.
I laughed to myself as I walked by the bustling shops, a few cars lumbering past me down the narrow streets. Streets more suited to horses than cars, to be honest. I realized that I don’t even own a car anymore. My beloved Audi is months-gone. My home rented. My belongings are strewn between one storage unit in Portland, Oregon and a few homes scattered along the west coast of the United States and a little island in Greece. It is the spring of 2024 and only a handful of years ago, life was very different.
In the height of the pandemic that was the summer of 2020, I found myself completely exhausted by hustle culture. I had played hard, worked hard, and it seemed like it was only getting harder. I was intent on earning more and more money only to find myself increasingly unhappy. I was overwhelmed by a feeling of, “What is the point?” I kept attaining sought-after milestones that brought me fleeting joy. A fancy car, nice clothes, vacations, a million dollar home with an ocean view, custom Italian furniture — but what did it mean? How many pairs of shoes do you need with only two feet? What good was my gorgeous home when I had no time to invite friends and family over to enjoy it? What purpose did my ridiculously expensive bed tailor-fit to the third story master bedroom matter if I couldn’t recall the last time my then-husband and I were intimate? I was glued to my phone, ping-ponging between avoidance and anxiety and reaching for anything to try to find some semblance of meaning or to absolve from meaning entirely.
I felt wronged in some way. After all, I did the right things. I went to school, I got good grades, heck — I got two degrees, I worked my way up in my career, I made great money, I started a business, I achieved and achieved and achieved and the faster I ran, the faster the treadmill went. I was exhausted. What was the point of all of this work — the books read, the therapy, the education, the effort? Fed up with fighting a tireless current, I decided to turn things on their head. And by things, I mean my entire life. What if instead of needing more money, I needed less? What if instead of constantly pushing my income forward, I pushed my expenses back? What would my life look like if I didn’t live in the shadow cast by my career and income anxiety? What if instead of seeking security through money, I sought peace through freedom?
I made a sweeping decision to sell the house, quit my job, find a new job, buy a house in a cheaper area, and move to the Pacific Northwest to start a new chapter of life of my own choosing. And I wanted it all done within the few months I had left before my 40th birthday. When I move, I move. The discomfort of getting the same results from the same actions was greater than the discomfort of the unknown. I was leaving behind not only what I had worked for, but what countless people are pushing and striving and working for. Most people are willing to stay relatively unhappy because they know the size of their suffering, they know how far they can jump and run and sink and wallow and thrive before they have to return to center. The comfort of what is known (even a known level of pain) is a huge hook for most people. But I am not most people.
The problem with making decisions is that they often lead to more big decisions. You kick one rock and it hits another rock and all of the sudden you have a rock slide. Turns out that kicking rocks at 40 feels really good. I started questioning why I thought I needed to have the things I thought I needed and why I was working so hard to have things I didn’t have a clear reason for needing. What was I fixing if I wasn’t finding myself more fulfilled or living a life devoid of purpose? I pulled on my shoes and started nudging and bumping every area.
I found myself in yet another corporate job making a lot of money and feeling ungrateful and largely unsatisfied with how I was expected to treat other people and how I was supposed to spend my time. I resented the pointless meetings, the hours of emails, the circling back, the syncing up, the stupid corporate structure that rewarded those who greased the machine versus the cogs that crank the engine.
I found myself unhappy in my marriage. After stripping away anything to hide from, I could no longer ignore the issues at home. Maybe it wasn’t just the stress from work or business or the house or moving, etc… While I deeply loved (and still love) my ex-husband, we weren’t happy.
I found myself wondering what unraveling more of my life would look like. What if I got a divorce? What if I sold this house? What if I bought a cheaper house? What if I cut my bills further? What if I shifted again and bought more of my freedom back? I moved to Portland and bought a home less than half the price of my first home. I put my money (truly) where my mouth was and quit my high-paying corporate job. I didn’t have a million dollars saved or a massive plan, but I knew that based on the lower budget I had carved out, I could easily and consistently meet and exceed my bills. I formed three more LLCs. I didn’t want to wait for the perfect time or a set amount of money saved or someone else to come along or any of the other excuses. My time is limited and precious. My ability to make things work has a proven track record. Why would I put less faith in myself than in a corporation?
I found myself rising with the sunrise and I haven’t set an alarm in years, unless I need to make an early morning flight. I found myself sitting in Dubai on a rooftop deck overlooking a wild city with a handful of business partners I’d never met. I found myself spending inordinate amounts of time watching clouds sail across my windows and got to know the seagull that loved to visit the neighboring street every day. I went on a lot of trail runs and painted with the sun shining in my giant studio windows. I made friends with my neighbors and shared meals and gossip and wine. I spent time, unfettered, on calls with friends. I went to coffee and took my journal, unencumbered by deadlines. I got to know myself at such a wonderful level that I am now unshakeable and deeply rooted. I spent time thinking about what I actually needed and wanted in the stillness I’d carved out for myself.
I jogged back down from the dam today, waving to Yannis (The Horseman of Plomari), to the lady with the dog who loves to sit in the sun, to the lady with the beautiful flowers, to the guy with the big house across the bridge, to a half-dozen dogs and a few dozen cats, to farmers clattering by in their trucks and mopeds and motorcycles carrying eggs and milk and one giant crate of green onions. I jogged down past the stores, and the restaurants, and the homes and the fishermen with a stream of kalimeras and yas and smiles and waves in my wake. I don’t own a car. I don’t have a normal career. Much of the furniture that we have in the house came with the house. Even the little bag of sewing threads next to me and my easel here belong to a previous owner. I brought my expensive fillet knife. We bought a nice orange enamel cast iron pan. Before me sits two massive piles of fresh chamomile flowers we picked to turn into tea. It turns out, I have everything I need.
