This year marked my third year of full-time travel. Three years of packing up my life, learning new neighborhoods, finding new routines, and calling unfamiliar places home. Even if only for a season. And somehow, this year felt different than the others.
I lived in and experienced five new cities and states this year. On paper, that sounds exciting. And it was, but not in the glossy, always-on-the-go way people sometimes imagine. It was layered. Grounding and destabilizing at the same time. Beautiful, and occasionally exhausting. And it taught me more about myself than I expected.
By year three, travel stops being about novelty. You already know how to set up a temporary life. You know how to find the good grocery store, the coffee shop you’ll inevitably become loyal to, the walking route that starts to feel familiar. What changes is why you’re moving, and how deeply you let each place shape you.
Some cities stretched me. Some softened me. Some felt like a deep exhale, others like a mirror I wasn’t fully prepared to look into. There were places where I felt instantly connected, and others where I felt a quiet sense of displacement, even while doing all the “right” things.
Travel, especially long-term, has a way of stripping things down. Without the constant of a home base, you’re left with yourself, your patterns, your coping mechanisms, your needs.
This year asked me to pay closer attention to all of that.
What I noticed most was how much I crave balance now. I still love movement and change, but I’ve learned that I also need stillness. Familiar faces. Slower mornings. Nights that don’t require plans. This year helped me understand that rest doesn’t mean I’m giving up, it means I’m listening.
One of the most unexpected gifts of this year came from an online community. Somewhere between packing up apartments and settling into new ones, I found a group of like-minded people who resonated deeply with the quieter things I was sharing. People who weren’t just chasing aesthetics or productivity, but depth. Reflection. Intention.
What stood out to me most was how many of the women in this space were also choosing paths that didn’t follow the traditional script. Not out of rebellion, but because it felt right to them. Questioning timelines, redefining success, opting out of expectations that never really fit, and trusting themselves enough to build lives that feel aligned rather than approved. Being in that kind of community has been incredibly grounding. It reminds me that there isn’t one correct way to live a life, and that choosing differently doesn’t mean you’re doing something wrong.
I didn’t set out to build community, I just started being more honest. About uncertainty. About comparison. About not always having a clear answer. And in doing that, I realized how many people were feeling the same way. Conversations became more meaningful. Messages felt less transactional and more human. That sense of connection mattered more to me than any growth metric ever could.
This year also brought me closer to family and friends in ways I didn’t anticipate. When you travel full-time, time together becomes more intentional by default. Visits feel more precious. Conversations feel deeper. I found myself slowing down when I was with them, choosing presence over productivity, and realizing how grounding it can be to be around people who know you outside of who you’re becoming.
There were moments this year when that closeness really landed. Shared meals. Long car rides. Familiar laughter. The reminder that no matter how many places I move through, there are relationships that anchor me.
Of course, it wasn’t all ease and gratitude. This year had its hard edges. There were moments where I felt unsettled and emotionally triggered in ways I didn’t expect. Times when comparison crept in quietly and made me question my pace, my choices, and whether I was “doing enough” with the life I’ve built.
Living between places has a way of amplifying those feelings. When nothing is permanent, it’s easy to feel unmoored. I had to learn how to sit with discomfort instead of rushing to solve it. How to let seasons be undefined. How to accept that clarity doesn’t always come on demand.
Turning 30 this year added another layer to everything I was already feeling. If I’m honest, I’m not where I thought I would be by this age. At least not by the version of me who once measured life against a more traditional timeline. There are still unknowns. Still open doors. Still questions I don’t have neat answers to.
But there’s also a sense of contentment I’ve never experienced before. This is the happiest I’ve been. Not because everything is figured out, but because I finally feel at home in my own choices. I trust myself more. I feel less pressure to perform my life for anyone else. I’m no longer rushing toward milestones just because I think I’m supposed to.
One of the biggest lessons this year taught me is that growth isn’t always exciting. Sometimes it feels like tension. Like restlessness. Like being in between versions of yourself without a clear timeline for what comes next. I’m learning that that space isn’t something to fear, it’s something to respect.
I’m proud of how I showed up this year, even when it wasn’t perfect. I’m proud of the boundaries I practiced. Proud of choosing alignment over approval more often than not. Proud of letting things be quieter, slower, and more intentional.
Even when that felt uncomfortable.
This year didn’t give me all the answers, but it gave me perspective. It reminded me that forward movement doesn’t have to be loud to be meaningful. That a slower pace doesn’t mean you’re behind. And that a life built with intention will never look the same as one built for comparison.
As I close out this year, I’m not rushing to define what’s next. I’m letting things unfold. Carrying the lessons with me. Holding onto what feels true. Releasing what no longer fits, even if it once did.
Three years into full-time travel, I’m realizing that the biggest shifts aren’t about where I go, but how I move through the world.
With more awareness. More softness. More trust in my own timing.
This year changed me. Not loudly, not all at once. But in the ways that last.
And honestly, I’m really grateful for that.
