“I wanted to go everywhere. I would have started on a day’s notice for the North Pole or the South, to the jungle or the desert. It made not the slightest difference to me.” Roy Chapman Andrews
The ability to live by this mantra has been a tremendous stroke of luck. The practice of living by it has been thrilling, lonely, joyous, and bloody exhausting, sometimes all at once.
I first attempted to draft this piece about a month ago. Having just arrived in Belgium for a new job, I figured the sensation and strategies of moving would be fresh in my brain. Maybe I’d incorporate one of my red wine-infused philosophical musings from the flight, or take advantage of the jet-lag and write something genius while watching the sunrise over Brussels.
NOPE. Despite having moved back and forth across the Atlantic every six months for the past two years, I somehow forgot that it turns my brain to mush for about 48 hours each time. Moreover, once that 48-hour “grace period” is over and my brain has returned to its usual consistency, it faces the real work of moving: bureaucracy. You need proof of residency to open a bank account, a bank account to pay the deposit on an apartment, and an apartment to prove your residency. It’s nothing short of maddening.
In some respects, each move does get easier. I know which pharmacy products are only sold in the U.S. (Visine-A) and which are way cheaper in Europe (Klorane dry shampoo), I have a neatly-wrapped charging cord for every device and continent, I know exactly what a 49.9-lb suitcase feels like, and I always download my destination on Google maps, in case I don’t have data for a while. Everything I need fits in three bags. The rest of what I own — my second- and third-favorite sundresses, depressingly underused ski gear, board and card games that are too heavy to carry but too expensive to own in duplicate, first-edition Harry Potter books, some Wizard of Oz Barbies — is collecting dust in the closet of my mom’s guestroom. This isn’t out of some Marie Kondo-esque desire for minimalism. I like stuff, especially sundresses and books, but I don’t like schlepping that stuff around.
For all that practice and refinement, I still hit the occasional snag. This time, it was razor blade refills.
Don’t worry, I found them. But it got me thinking about what would eventually become the title of this piece: for all the experiences, skills, friends, and stories I’ve gained, what have I lost? And what makes those losses a price worth paying?
To reflect on this question, I enlisted the help of a few comrades-in-passports: other young women who either haven’t put down roots or have planted them under very light soil. These are women who have done time in security lines and immigration offices, who keep multiple copies of their birth certificate notarized and translated in at least two languages, who know what it’s like to constantly be the new kid, and who are good enough friends to submit to me questioning their life choices.
How many times have you moved? Why’d you do it? What’s something tangible that you’ve lost? How about something intangible? How does that make you feel? Where to next?
Collectively, we’ve suffered few material losses — an Anthropologie gift card, a piece of sporting equipment, a signed copy of a book — largely because we have so little stuff to lose. We have lost financial security and earning potential, due to moving laterally across multiple industries and networks, not to mention pausing our careers to attend grad school. (Though it’s possible that financial security is a myth perpetuated by Baby Boomers, and no one actually has it.)
“I don’t think I’ve ever lost anything important,” wrote Nora, whose stylish, functional, and nearly all-black wardrobe typifies the ‘less is more’ nomad mindset. “Because I move so much, and because the moves usually involve airplanes, I usually only bring what I can carry myself.”
Intangible losses are a different story. Not one of us hasn’t taken a hit in our relationships: loss of depth in old friendships, of time with relatives who won’t be around forever, of the ability to commit to romantic partners, of shared culture and identity.
Rachel reflected on her changing relationship with her best childhood friend. “Texting and calling is okay, but it’s just not the same as being able to meet up for a coffee … I don’t like it, but I don’t know how it would change.”
That is the final common thread: ultimately, we would make the same choices all over again. The sense of adventure, the curiosity, and the independence burning inside us are more powerful than any hypothetical regret.
What if I’d stayed in that well-paid job in a city I can’t stand, but that’s filled with people I care about? What if I’d gone on a third date with that wonderful guy who had no desire to ever leave our hometown? What if I just settled down for once, traded the constant “Hi, my name is Elizabeth” for “Hello, my love, what are we watching on Netflix tonight?” and the meager internship stipends for a 401(k)?
One day. Not yet.
While I have spent hours waiting for red stamps in immigration offices and getting lost on unfamiliar public transport networks, I have spent many more of them excavating ancient ruins, participating in multilingual debates on gender and security, and picnicking at sunset (and midnight) on the Seine.
Maybe I did spend a hellish month subletting from a psycho because I had nowhere else to live. Maybe, in my desperation to get out from under her controlling Parisian thumb, I lowered my living standards and agreed to share a random room on Craigslist.
Guess what? My new roommate became one of my best friends, and the room we shared became our crew’s Game Night headquarters.
It’s not easy acknowledging that no matter where I am, a majority of the people I love will be elsewhere. But nothing compares to the joy of the night I introduced my two best friends from California and France… and they got along amazingly. To live on the road is to leave little pieces of your soul wherever you go, like well-intentioned Horcruxes, but unlike in Deathly Hallows, uniting them is life-giving.
“It’s a trade-off,” agreed Maria. “I’ve lived the kind of a life I have wanted to, and every choice of lifestyle comes with its pros and cons. Because it’s a life I chose, the outcome doesn’t make me feel too bad, or if it did, I could own the feeling.”
“I have also,” she added, “gotten used to the feeling of missing people.”
