The toughest part of traveling isn’t what you might think. It’s not the jet lag, the risk of food poisoning, or enduring a long flight squeezed between two people who may not have showered in a while.
Instead, the real struggle is coming home. The longer I’m away, the more challenging it becomes to transition back to life in the U.S. This last time, I spent five months exploring Hong Kong, Southeast Asia, and Australia.
The initial days or weeks back in the States feel blissful. I indulge in all the things I missed – cheese, bagels, breakfast tacos, refreshing showers with consistent water pressure, and driving with the windows down, belting out Jimmy Eat World tunes like it’s 2002. Oh, and cheese! (There’s a serious lack of cheese in Asia.)
Nothing compares to that first visit to Super Target, a marvel of modern convenience where I can purchase everything I need under one roof rather than making multiple stops. Life in America is incredibly convenient.
Then comes the reverse culture shock. I often forget about sales tax and find myself debating with the cashier at Walgreens over why my $1.99 mints don’t cost that much after tax. The Southern accent can be so thick that I sometimes need a moment to mentally translate it before I can respond.
For me, adapting means embracing America’s strengths while avoiding its pitfalls. It’s a daily balancing act. Plastic grocery bags remind me of the polluted beaches in Vietnam. The barrage of personal injury lawyer billboards with their get-rich-quick schemes hits home when I remember how challenging U.S. health insurance can be, which is part of why I spend so much time abroad. (I’d love to start a GoFundMe to replace those ads with cute images of kittens, puppies, and baby llamas simply saying “Drive Safe!”) Yet, every time I brush my teeth, I appreciate having access to safe, drinkable tap water after months of filtering my own.
Defining what home means is complicated. When asked where home is, I often laugh.
It’s a straightforward question with a complex answer. Over the last decade, I’ve lived in five states (South Carolina, Missouri, Alabama, California, and Texas) and five countries (England, Australia, India, Thailand, and the U.S.).
Pico Iyer, a fellow traveler and writer, discussed this topic in a TED talk. He noted that over 220 million people live outside their home countries. Iyer asks, what if “where do you come from?” really means “Which place resonates most deeply with you? Where do you wish to spend the most time?”
I certainly don’t belong in the small town in South Carolina where I was born. I always felt like an outsider. If pursuing your passions with 120% commitment makes you crazy, then I’m proud to wear that label. Life is too short for anything less.
People often wonder if I’ll ever settle down or establish a home base. I’d love to have multiple bases. Texas captures my heart, but so does Thailand. Buenos Aires holds a special significance for me. Ideally, I’d spend part of the year in various locations while working.
Over the last decade, I’ve lived on a bridge between America and Asia. From 2009 to 2012, I spent two to six months each year traveling and working in Asia, considering it my home. I kept returning to America, even if I never truly felt at home there. Recently, I spent two months in Thailand during my latest trip; it was my first return to Southeast Asia in five years. The moment I arrived in Bangkok, it felt just as much like home as Texas does. Five years ago, I decided to go back to the States. While I loved Asia, I believed I could only build a career in the U.S. (The cheese shortage may have played a role in that decision too.)
Iyer makes another insightful observation: “Home isn’t merely where you’re born; it’s where you become your true self.” If that’s the case, then my home includes Northern England, Birmingham, Alabama, Sydney, Australia, and India. Those places have had the most profound impact on shaping my future.
The ease of reuniting with friends after months or years apart makes traveling worthwhile. For me, home is increasingly about the people rather than just a physical place. Many of my journeys now revolve around visiting old friends. (As I write, I’m on my friend’s couch in Santa Fe, New Mexico, which feels like another version of home.)
To me, home embodies many experiences: an overnight train through an Asian jungle, the arrivals hall at Charlotte airport (closest to my hometown), and my suitcase. It’s biking with my nephew on my parents’ farm and snapping silly pictures with my gnome.
Home also means meeting an old friend for a drink in a foreign city.
Ultimately, home is the journey itself. I wouldn’t have it any other way.
