12 May 2026
There’s a strange nostalgic breeze in the air. Fairy lights flicker, and a familiar tune played on an acoustic guitar drifts softly through the night. It’s quiet, and yet the voices in my head will not rest. I feel lonely. I miss my tribe more than I can express in words right now.
There are many things about long-term travel that we don’t talk about often enough. A peaceful happiness has settled into my soul over the last three months, but if I’m honest, I still feel exhausted. It doesn’t really make sense. I’m not working ridiculous hours. I’m not especially active physically. There are no obvious reasons for me to feel this tired, and over the last few days I’ve sat quietly, trying to understand where this exhaustion is coming from.
Sometimes it’s not the big moves, the great adventures, or the most exciting journeys that wear us down. Sometimes it’s the small things. The same questions repeated over and over again.
“Where are you from?”
“How long have you been traveling?”
“Why are you traveling?”
“When are you going home?”
Home…
Is it a place? Is it a feeling? Are we ever truly at home, or do we simply feel safe inside familiarity? When we make peace with all the parts of ourselves, when we do the difficult inner work and release the traumas, pain, and false expectations, home becomes a state of being in many ways. We find quiet where there was once turmoil, smiles where we once believed we needed something external to make us happy.
And still, a longing remains.
“Where will you go next?”
I have no idea.
Freedom? Yes. Absolute terror sometimes? Also yes.
Being fully present, making the most of each moment in every incredible place, sounds simple. And it is. But how do we ever completely silence the small human voice inside us that wants to know what comes next? Where will I be when this season changes? Who will I be with? Where will I find the energy to make new friends, introduce myself all over again, and adjust to another atmosphere, another culture, another bed, another version of daily life?
The scent of citrus blossoms blends with the music and the twinkling lights. My season at the hostel is nearly over, and in a few days I will move into “my” new apartment. I couldn’t be more grateful to finally have a space of my own again. It’s been almost a year and a half since I last had somewhere to truly settle. Strange how my life seems to move in three-month cycles without any conscious intention for it to happen that way.
For the next few months, I’ll be house- and pet-sitting for a fellow expat travelling outside of Georgia. I’ll stay in a beautiful apartment only ten minutes from the city center, with two big fluffy cats as companions. It feels like such a blessing.
And yet, somewhere beneath the gratitude, sadness lingers quietly because I know this, too, is temporary.
There is a constant wave of emotions, ranging from feeling deeply elated to sinking so low that I don’t even want to get out of bed, the heaviness overriding the beauty around me some days. Sitting with that sadness, allowing it to fully exist as well, has been its own journey.
Some things are simply sad.
Saying goodbye is sad. Leaving somewhere that became home is sad. Uprooting the tiny roots you planted over three months is sad.
But all of it is layered with sunlight and joy as we continue moving forward, meeting more aspects of ourselves, growing through each experience, and discovering versions of who we are that we never knew could exist.
