Will There Ever Be A Time When I Don’t Feel A Little Lost?

Maybe my purpose in life is just to wander

I stared out to the vast, expansive sea and I couldn’t help but wonder, “What’s next?” The idea of this journey coming to an end didn’t sit well with me. Here I was, on a tiny fishing island where the biggest event of the day might just be watching the sun dip below the horizon, and I was completely content.

For me, traveling wasn’t about the hustle or the next big thrill. It was the slow-paced days I craved — wandering on foot without a destination, making friends with the local cats, and eating my weight in spinach pies.

Was it too much to dream that this could be my every day? That I could just keep moving, keep living at this unhurried pace?

Something deep down was nudging me, whispering that this nomadic life wasn’t just a phase but perhaps my calling.

I have a strange deep-seated need to explore. Call it what you want — wanderlust, running away, curiosity — whatever it is, it’s constantly there.

And it’s only growing louder as I age.

At a time when most people my age crave stability and a family, I (at nearly 40), can’t sit still. I don't mind having a home base, but I am driving myself crazy by being in it all the time.

Preferably, I’d like to just come back to it every several months or so. I’m well aware of how I sound right now — like an extremely privileged, whiny brat— but try as I may, my dream never changes much.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted nothing more than to travel slowly and freely. I know this is something a lot of people want, but when I tell you, it’s a relentless urge to ditch everything I own and just hit the road, there’s no exaggeration.

I thought it was just because of where I live (sometimes being back in your hometown will do that to you), but as it turns out, that curious feeling of exploration is my constant companion, no matter where I find myself.

I think that’s why I’m still obsessed with ‘van-lifers’ and digital nomads. It seems those who have been on the road for years are the only ones who understand how I’m feeling when I say I need to roam freely.

It’s not that I don’t love my family, house, and beautiful garden. It’s that this wanderlust is an incessant presence in my thoughts, a daydream that refuses to relent. It’s not about leaving; it’s about the intoxicating notion of wandering without end.

I can’t quite put the feeling into words.

When I grow up, I wanna be a Vagabond. Except — I am grown up and I’m still feeling so lost when all I want to be is… lost.

I got a taste of it in 2017 when I traveled from September to January, just going wherever my heart desired. It is the only time I have ever really felt that I was doing what I really loved — being lost and feeling at home for the first time.

Talk about a dichotomy, eh?

Leaving Michigan with one backpack and a messenger bag for my laptop, I set off to see some friends in other states before my three-month trip to Europe.

I discovered altitude sickness was a real thing in Denver after attending a beer festival and uncovered a lust, er I mean admiration, for live Rugby matches, even though I knew nothing of the game.

From Denver, I spent another couple weeks in Los Angeles, visiting my best friend, meeting up with a random group of people from high school who happened to be there too, going to a punk rock icon’s house, and attending a music festival solo in the desert.

From Cali, I jetted off to Prague and wandered the cobblestone roads, ate giant sausages from street vendors, and made friends with an Aussie girl, and a guy from Oregon. I couch-surfed and befriended local musicians who took me to some tourist-free bars, accidentally wandered into a brothel, and figured out the tram system after a few days of getting lost.

From Prague, I went to Český Krumlov, Vienna, and Budapest. Vienna was full of visits to castles, drinking mulled wine in the town square, and admiration of all the sculptures and art. Budapest brought about a stay at a disgusting party hostel, followed by a questionable viral infection that took me down for one whole week, and of course a visit to the famous thermal baths.

Then came Greece. My love, my dream, my ultimate bucket list destination. I had a longtime fascination with Greece, from the culture to the mythology, to the food. And it did not disappoint. From road-tripping through the Peloponnese, through groves of olives and mountainside shepherds, I fell in love with every piece of it. I visited a few of the islands, lived in an apartment on Crete for one month, and learned how to slow down.

And since then, I’ve wondered how to get back to this life I caught a glimpse of. It’s like I held my dream life in the palm of my hands and one slight move, one wrong turn, and it was gone in the blink of an eye — or my case, a grandfather’s death and an ACL tear.

How do I get back to my nomadic dreams? Am I trying to simply relive my trip? Or am I trying to skirt reality and the grind I’ve found myself in back in, in the States?

It may seem like I’m never happy, but that’s not the case either. I am content. But, always craving something…..more. And I have to wonder, what am I chasing with this dream?

And does it have to be that deep?

What if I’m just insatiably curious? What if I want to see and feel how others live their lives? Does there need to be more to it than that?

Learning and meeting new people, cultures, and environments ultimately make you a more empathetic, caring, and understanding person.

I think the world could use more people like that.

Tell me, fellow travelers. Do you feel this insatiable wanderlust too and is it ever satisfied? Why do you think we’re always having to justify it (to ourselves, and/or to others)?