Ever since I left home for this backpacking journey that took on a life of its own, I’ve been enticed by the concept of being a digital nomad. Back in 2021, when the world was continuing to shift under the weight of COVID, the idea of working from anywhere became a dream and a lifestyle. The job didn’t even matter; the real selling point was freedom. As someone whose travels began as a search for what freedom meant to me and how to find it, this idea was incredibly tempting. And as the world shifted and my travels continued, I began to cross paths with more and more digital nomads. The Americans were the first ones I met. With their sleek laptops, And even sleeker Apple Watches, I envied them. It was already a losing battle with the green-eyed monster. The Americans – cool, exotic, with that oh-so-coveted passport they took for granted – would casually drop, “I’m a digital nomad,” as we met near some random co-working space.

But when I walked into these co-working spaces, it seemed to be designed by someone who had never worked a day in their life – moldy bean bags, generic wooden desks, inconvenient plugs, the whole aesthetic an affront to my backpacker spirit. Lugging around a laptop? As if shoving all my valuables into a hostel vault wasn’t already hard enough. At least that was what I told myself. I knew, deep down, that this journey would eventually have to evolve. But I wasn’t in any rush. In those first few years, skipping between nameless towns, hostels, and midnight buses felt like enough.

I kept telling myself that it would happen eventually. Procrastination became my default mode. I wasn’t really working—I was just drifting, happy to spend all my savings as I was going through my “planes, trains, and automobiles” phase, as I fondly call those splendid years today. I was sleeping in hostels, washing my laundry in the sink, and living from one ticket to the next. But after a couple of years and countless random temporary jobs, something started pulling at me. 

The digital nomads I met weren’t just travelers; they had a different rhythm to their lives, one that was certainly less chaotic than my own rhythm, which was seemingly controlled by the clickety clackety sound of my boots on cobblestones, and the thumping reverberations of old SUVs on dirt roads. The Nomads would settle in one place for three to six months, work in the morning, and surf in the afternoon. I joked that the surf lineup was just a sea of gringos, but inside, I was jealous. I wanted what they had.

It wasn’t just a lifestyle but a way of life for them. And I couldn’t ignore it anymore. I had romanticized the idea of settling into something more sustainable, something that could transform my (at this point) exhausting travels into something deeper. I was tired of working odd jobs in random countries just to fund my next plane ticket. I wanted to expand my world and my professional life without giving up my freedom. But I couldn’t keep hopping on midnight buses if I had an 8:00 a.m. meeting to attend, right? 

 Eventually, I pursued it. The digital nomad identity became something I wanted to slip into, maybe even hide behind, oh to be a citizen of the world with no end in sight.

Don’t get me wrong: my travels, the lessons I learned, and the person I discovered along the way were my life’s most real and grounding experiences. But as with everything, change was inevitable. Over time, my nature became less nomadic.

One of the first signs of this shift? I started craving a kitchen. 

After years of hostel stoves, tuna cans, and crackers for dinner, I missed cooking. I missed blasting Gaetz Gilberto while making lasagna, dancing to bossa nova in my cramped Tel Aviv apartment, the air thick with basil, tomatoes, and the scent of old walls. Still, just like in those grounded yet lacking days in Tel Aviv, I always found a way to make challah on Fridays during my travels – a near non-negotiable ritual.

I wanted to tap into that side of myself again. I longed for stability, for a space to call my own. And so, my travels slowed. I was no longer hopping between cities and jungles; I was staying, breathing, and cooking. It grounded me. The kitchen became a meditation – one constant in a life that looked nothing like that Tel Aviv apartment, the one that now seemed so far away, yet somehow, stirring bechamel sauce brought me back to it.

Suddenly, the idea of accumulating possessions, heaven forbid! – no longer seemed so alien. I started thinking about the future, about the jobs that would allow me to keep traveling while being stationary when I craved it.

I realized that balancing my love for exploration and my inept inability to be tied down—alongside my growing responsibilities—was a delicate act. The carefree lifestyle I had known was no longer sustainable. But in some ways, I had traded one kind of freedom for another. Someone told me once that there is no absolute freedom without responsibility, without commitment. And as the eternal commitment-phobe, it was quite an undertaking I was willing to grow into. 

And so, after years of searching, I finally became a digital nomad. And yes, it was just as romantic as I had imagined. At first. Until I quickly found myself at TSA, my backpack digging into my shoulders, filled with too many electronics. Why did I have three laptops again? One for personal use, one for a job, and one for another. Plus a monitor. Plus a dozen cables. I looked like a walking bomb threat. Would I even make it onto this plane?

Sitting at the airport, trying to juggle time zones to figure out when my next meeting would be,  wondering if I could finish an invoice before boarding – it wasn’t glamorous – giving up opportunities to explore because I was too exhausted from the workweek? Also not glamorous.

 Finding balance? I’m still working on it.

I often remind myself that if I made it through getting lost in Panama, and navigating the metro in Sao Paulo, well , I’m sure work-travel-life balance is within reach. Even if it will be a long process, after an even longer adjustment period.

 I managed to skip between two continents and four countries while working remotely, and that number will double in the coming months. A homage to my backpacker spirit, if you will. 

At the end of the day, my freedom is rooted in my commitment to my own path. I’ve learned that long ago, at some point between Geneva and Rome, it’s about being loyal to myself, refusing to compromise on my dreams – even when those dreams mean training for a job at 3:00 a.m. local time.

It’s not about how many miles I can rack up or how much money I can earn. It’s about that rigorous pursuit of my goals, whatever shape they take – whether that’s breathing in crisp mountain air or hunkering down in a moldy co-working space, sinking into a bean bag that’s seen better days.

Because freedom isn’t just movement, it’s a choice. And choosing what freedom looks like for me? That was one of the only choices worth making.