Chapter 1:

Throughout all of my travels, the most unexpected discovery hasn’t been a place. It’s been myself. Which sounds dramatic, but unfortunately, it’s true. I’m learning to prioritize the things I actually want, over what sounds cool or what will save me the most dollars.

I’m incredibly lucky to be writing this in 2026, still hopping between corners of the world, still calling this a “phase” even though it’s now lasted longer than some marriages. This travel journey began in 2024, though at the time I thought it had a very clear end date.

When I left for my first long backpacking trip to Southeast Asia in September 2025, I was 21 and looking for adventure. Just an adventure. Nothing existential or life-altering. I thought I’d spend three months abroad to get it out of my system, and come home ready for a 9-5, a lease, and maybe a houseplant I wouldn’t forget to water.

In the nights leading up to my flight, I’d close my eyes and picture what my adventure would look like: muggy jungles in Malaysia, glowing temples in Thailand, crystal blue water in the Philippines. My travel was all of these things, although it didn’t exactly give me a better idea of what I wanted out of life.

But to be fair, Southeast Asia was everything I expected. I made friends easily. I saw cool places. Ate great food. I tried to connect with local cultures in the ways fresh backpackers do: learning a few words of the language, and feeling worldly after eating the street food.

Three months and seven countries later, I came home feeling accomplished and cultured, albeit slightly insufferable.

I’d experienced Singapore’s nightlife, Angkor Wat’s sunrise. I tried pho in Vietnam and ramen in Japan. I was basically living the life of Anthony Bourdain, right? I mean, it was all incredible. Yet, by the end of it, I knew I’d missed something. I wanted to backpack again, but not to move faster or see more. I didn’t want to collect countries like badges. I wanted to travel to actually understand the world better.

And I still wanted to understand myself.

Chapter 2:

So in June of 2025, I left again. This time with a one-way ticket and no idea of a return date. Which felt bold and romantic until I realized I had no real plan beyond “figure it out”. 

I discovered volunteering abroad. The deal was simple: work a few hours a day in exchange for accommodation and food. No income, no work visa bureaucracy. It felt perfect for me, and it was. Volunteering took me to places I never would’ve chosen on purpose. I stopped planning far in advance, partly out of flexibility and partly because I genuinely didn’t know what country I’d want to be in next month.

This time, my purpose was twofold:

First: travel as long as possible while spending as little money as possible. I’ve always been frugal, but this bordered on sport.

Second: experience cultures more deeply. Instead of bounding through cities, I stayed put. I learned routines. I learned boredom. I almost learned what it feels like to live somewhere instead of just passing through.

Over seven months in 2025, volunteering led me to a Hungarian cowboy horse show, a homesteading farm in a remote corner of the Czech Republic, a language academy in Turkey. I lived with Bedouins in the literal desert in Jordan for a few weeks – an experience I will always cherish, even as I sometimes laugh at how absurd my life was at times.

Coming home after that was harder than I expected. I’d only planned to return for a month around Christmas, but it felt like an ending I hadn’t prepared for. I remember sitting alone in Egypt a few days before flying back to New York, feeling like my perspective had quietly and permanently shifted.

My views were wider, now.

Life was bigger than I’d been taught.

And I wasn’t sure what to do with that knowledge once I was back in my tiny hometown, pretending to care about local sports or something.

Chapter 3:

I had a flight booked to Marrakesh for late January, after a month at home. I chose Morocco for the worst reason possible: it was the cheapest flight out of JFK airport.

Something felt off, though. For a few weeks beforehand, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I didn’t want to go. There was no excitement or pre-trip awe. No sense of freedom buzzing under my skin. I told myself I was just tired.

I got dropped off at the airport. I went through TSA. Five minutes after arriving at my gate, an announcement came over the intercom: my flight was delayed three hours due to a servicing issue. 

This never happens to me. I have had inexplicably good flight luck for years. And suddenly, sitting there with a duffel bag at my feet, I wondered if the universe was trying to tell me something, or maybe I was just desperate for an excuse to listen to myself.

Three hours after our initial boarding time, they finally let us on the plane. But ten minutes after sitting down and buckling in, the pilot announced that we couldn’t leave yet. The crosswinds at JFK were too strong for the runway we were assigned, so he was going to ask the airport to open a safer one for us.

Thirty minutes passed and we were still parked at the gate. The pilot returned over the intercom with an update: JFK couldn’t open a new runway for our plane at that time. On top of that, the Rochester airport was closed down because a different airplane slid off the runway due to the snow and needed to be towed out. 

I stood up, grabbed my carry on, and got off that plane.

Objectively, that wasn’t the most logical decision. I’d already paid for my ticket from JFK to Morocco. I had cleared TSA. I was sitting in my seat. But I felt an overwhelming need to go home, and I was tired of arguing with it.

I felt relief the second I left the airport and called my boyfriend to come pick me up. I told myself I’d make a new plan the next day. I’d leave the U.S. again by the weekend. I wasn’t quitting, but I needed another second to pause.

I don’t know what would’ve happened if I’d left for Morocco that day. Possibly nothing. But the urge to get off that plane was unlike anything I’d felt before while traveling. And I’ve learned to pay attention to feelings like that – especially the ones that don’t come with a very rational explanation.

I think part of the relief came from finally giving myself the permission to stop and ask what I was doing, and why. Toward the end of my most recent long trip, I started to feel restless. Not bored, exactly. More so… untethered. I’d seen a lot and done a lot. And I kept asking myself: now what?

Wandering aimlessly was once appealing, but now it feels hollow. I realized I need more than movement. I need direction, purpose. Something to move toward instead of away from. So I sat with myself and I asked what I actually wanted out of traveling now. Not what was cheapest, not what extended the trip the longest.

The answer? A bit redundant: I want to do what I want to do.

I don’t want volunteering opportunities to dictate my route anymore. I don’t want to skip experiences because they’re a little pricey. I don’t want to treat exhaustion like it’s an honorable thing. 

I might not be able to travel for as long as I’m used to. I might spend more money – a lot more. But I’ve decided it’s worth it. I’m saving my sleep (and therefore my sanity) by choosing private Airbnbs over 14-bed hostel dorms. I’m traveling with intention, choosing places for what they offer instead of how little they cost. I’m letting myself enjoy the experience without constantly calculating what it’s taking from me.

This time, I chose somewhere more out of the way. More expensive to get to. I’m staying completely alone. I’m buying my own food. And in doing less to “optimize” the journey, the true magic has come back. I’m feeling the freedom, wonder, and awe that I’d been missing for a little bit.

Exactly one week after my failed Morocco attempt, I boarded a flight to Rwanda, where I’m writing this now. I’m going on my first safari soon, and I can’t wait to tell you all about it.

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