Halfway through the flight to Australia, I felt it. Not fear, not excitement. Just a sadness I couldn’t quite name. The seatbelt sign extinguished, and the cabin lights dimmed. Around me, some watched movies, others poked at their in-flight meals. I just sat there, my tray table down, my coffee slowly growing cold.
My mind kept drifting to my mother. The way she held me at London Heathrow Airport. Her fingers still hooked on my jacket, as if not quite ready to let go. She looked tired. I told her I wanted to travel, but the words felt rehearsed, as if it wasn’t my decision at all, but rather something I’d had to convince myself to accept.
The Airbnb I rented in Melbourne looked like any other short-term rental. White walls, a laminated sheet on the table with the Wi-Fi password in large print. Some snacks in the kitchen, accompanied by a small note wishing me a “pleasant stay.”
I went through the motions mechanically. Toothbrush by the sink, laptop on the desk, socks tucked into a drawer. Every time I opened my suitcase, it was the same routine, no matter where I was. But halfway through, I paused. What was the point of settling in if I was just going to leave anyway? Why bother with all this effort?
As it turns out, this feeling has a name. Researchers at the University of Groningen call it “rootless fatigue.” They say that constant relocation can weaken your relationships and deteriorate your mental well-being.
I knew that feeling all too well.
Perhaps that’s why, the next morning, I picked up my phone and called my mom. She answered after two rings, asking if I was eating enough, if I was safe. Her voice was warm, filled with her usual concern.
“You’re my son,” she said, “of course I’ll always worry about you.”
I told her Melbourne was nice. The apartment was clean, there was a supermarket nearby, and the coffee was good. She said she was glad. Then she asked if I’d made any friends. I told her not really. She said it would take time.
A long silence followed. Then she started talking again. About the new neighbors across the street, about the retired nurse who’d just joined her bowling club, and about my grandparents coming for dinner that weekend. Everything was so specific, so full of everyday life. I could almost smell the home-cooked meals, the kind whose secret ingredient is “love.”
But that life, those details, had nothing to do with me anymore. Those small things that make a place “home” were now just stories for me. I could listen, but I couldn’t truly experience them. In that moment, I felt as though my roots had been pulled up, tossed anywhere on the map, unable to ever grow deep again.
In March 2020, when the Australian Prime Minister urged tourists to leave, I went home. That evening, my mom was in the kitchen, tidying up slowly, as she always did. I, meanwhile, was in my bedroom, folding clothes that should no longer have been in a suitcase.
Mom called from the other room, saying dinner was ready. So I got up and went to the dining table. We ate pasta. The sauce was sweeter than I remembered. The garlic bread was a little burnt. Mom apologized, but I didn’t mind at all. We didn’t talk much after that, and we didn’t need to.
She washed, I dried. The steam softened everything around us. The heat from the plates warmed my hands. At some point, she started humming. I don’t think she even realized it. For some reason, I just started to cry. I couldn’t say why, I just cried.
My mom once asked me what I did when I traveled. I told her it was pretty much the same everywhere. Find a supermarket I liked, remember where my favorite foods were, and have conversations with people I knew I’d never see again. Then pack up, leave, and repeat.
I told myself that being a digital nomad gave me freedom. After all, I was living my dream life, able to work from anywhere. But if that were truly the case, why did I feel so damn lonely?
As it turns out, I wasn’t the only one. A BBC study revealed that 81% of young people under 35 worry about feeling lonely due to long-term remote work. Other research indicates that young employees’ stress and anxiety levels have significantly increased since transitioning to remote work models.
I was part of that 81%. I thought about this for a long time, contemplating the unexpected mental health issues that “working from anywhere” could bring. I started to think. Maybe freedom isn’t about how many cities I’ve visited or how far I’ve traveled. Perhaps true freedom means staying in one place long enough to build meaningful relationships and find inner peace.
Years later, I met someone. She gave me a new outlook on the future. Before, the future was just a list of destinations. Now, I find myself involuntarily imagining waking up not in some new city, but in a home of my own.
I’m not afraid to settle down. Not at all, really. What I feel is something else. A sense of “moving towards” rather than “running from.” It feels like, for the first time, I’m heading in a direction I truly want to go. No longer chasing a nomadic existence, but wanting to put down roots and build a future with that special person. After all, I used to think freedom meant being unburdened by anything. But now, I think freedom means enjoying the little moments that fill me with anticipation and make me want to stay.
Like Saturday mornings with no plans, folding laundry together with quiet music playing in the background. Hearing her laugh in the next room, just knowing she’s nearby, brings an indescribable, quiet joy. Sometimes, in the evenings, we walk to the corner store for chocolate cookies we don’t really need. And sometimes, we just sit quietly, doing our own things, yet completely together.
I used to measure life in miles traveled, airports visited, and new SIM cards acquired. I measured it by how far I could go, how quickly I could tick a place off my bucket list. But now, I measure it differently. By a shared mouthwash cup, by inside jokes only we understand, by the way she always hogs the blanket and then apologizes five minutes later. For me, those insignificant little things are more meaningful than all the stamps in my passport.