The Underrated Joy of Staying Put in a Nomadic World

The nomadic lifestyle is enjoying a moment. And for good reason: a pandemic that has freed people from their office chains, a digital culture that lets teams connect across continents, and a generation thirsty for adventure and experience… all ingredients that combine perfectly to make remote living a major post-pandemic trend (at least in some of my techy, hippie, privileged millennial circles). There’s something utterly sexy and freeing about being able to travel from exotic destination to the next without being tied to one location. The ability to soak in a new culture while working from a laptop, to flee the harsh winter in pursuit of warmer climes and to explore new lifestyles while Couch Surfing around the globe are all very appealing prospects. As an expat, I can certainly see the allure of the nomadic lifestyle. In fact, I foresee a period of gallivanting around the globe myself, in the near future, if only to scratch my travel bug itch and brush up on my Spanish. But is the nomadic life really all it’s hyped up to be?

While we hear a lot about the excitement of the nomadic life, we don’t often talk about the understated yet unique perks of being a local. This hit me when my hairdresser referred to me as his “regular of 5 years” this past weekend, as we jabbered the night away while he conducted his latest capillary experiment. I felt a strange sense of belonging take over me, as he uttered those words, that I had long been craving. As someone who has changed locales frequently in my early twenties, having to constantly adapt and assimilate to new places, cultures and languages (I moved from Morocco, where I was raised, to France where I studied, then the US, for work), calling New York City home for the past six years has been a welcome and much needed change in pace.

As I thought back to my time living in New York City, I realized that, despite all the challenges of living in arguably the world’s toughest city, I found deep satisfaction and comfort in having built my own home away from home. I relished the thought of having a “go-to” person, spot or activity for virtually everything. In the six years I’ve lived here, I have found my go-to hairdresser, go-to yoga spot, go-to park bench, go-to dance spot(s), go-to bar, go-to masseuse, etc. The type of “go-to” that comes from creating a long-term, consistent relationship with a person or locale over several months or years. The go-to that comes from establishing a routine and habits around your favorite places, things and people. The go-to that comes from working through the rough patches, finding light in the darkness (pandemic, anyone?) and sticking with it. The go-to that comes from slowly cultivating your very own little garden in an otherwise unpredictable, constantly changing jungle. The go-to that brings about a feeling of belonging and mastery over your own domain. Is this what commitment is supposed to feel like?

There’s something truly empowering — not to mention time and energy-saving — about knowing your way so intimately around a city that it feels as though you’ve always lived there, that you’re part of the fabric of the place; about having a pre-set, yet constantly changing routine, that gives structure to your life and removes all unnecessary guesswork; about strutting around with the nonchalant confidence of a local and being stopped on the city streets for directions. And the great thing about a place like New York City is that even when you think you have a go-to for everything, there are always more go-to’s to be found — from your go-to karaoke bar, and go-to Speakeasy to your go-to movie theater. The possibilities for social and professional renewal are endless. Constant novelty and exploration are the lifeblood of this place; so much so that personal transformation and growth seem always accessible within the same zip code (my hate-love letter to NYC probably deserves its own post).

But above all, the “go-to’s” — whether they’re humans, places or activities — are the bedrock of community; and without community there would be no sense of belonging — an instinct that we all recognize as integral to our ability to thrive and survive as humans. After all, relationships are slowly built over time as a result of repeated and long-term interactions, shared moments and experiences. Any relationship started in the context of nomadic explorations would inevitably be cut short or remain at the superficial getting-to know-you stages. I learned this the hard way as I was forced to leave behind the friendships and communities that I had built in my previous life across the Atlantic, and start from scratch after moving to the US. While I managed to somewhat stay in touch with many of my College and High school friends, I am sadly no longer an “active member” of these tribes, and as such, have had to forfeit my place as part of these communities.

So while the nomadic lifestyle may satisfy our very real thirst for discovery and exploration, it would seem that a completely itinerant life may also go against our real human need for stability, community, and belonging. Perhaps the ideal compromise would strike a balance between these two conflicting urges. The ideal living situation, for those who can afford it, might look like having a homebase in which to cultivate long-term habits and build community, while keeping the door open for exploration — through occasional travel or short-term stays in new locales. A semi-nomadic lifestyle, if you will, for the travel-obsessed.

A wise Twitter Guru said, “Digital Nomadism — so often, it’s just escapism disguised as enlightenment. After 3.5 happy years of being an expat and a DN, I think it’s more important to gain self-knowledge and a purpose in life. Travel is empty calories. Insight is the meal.” This quote captures a trend I’ve observed in many of my nomadic friends over the years. While a few seem to genuinely choose this lifestyle out of a deep love for travel and exploration, many seem to be running away from something or someone — whether from themselves or the lack of meaning in their lives. Incapable of sitting with themselves and facing their deep-seated fears, insecurities and existential anguish, they turn to travel just as I would turn to my latest Netflix binge — numbing their overactive brains and restlessly hopping from city to the next, in search for their next hit.

Writer and digital nomad Taylor Haught aptly speaks to this urge in her post The Art of Escapism, as she comes to grips with her travel addiction (“I have a love affair with travel Pinterest boards, and checking sites like Skyscanner and Airbnb is basically the equivalent of a bump of cocaine for me.”). Immobilized by the pandemic, she contemplates the reasons for her travel addiction and how it’s affected her life: “Later, this became an insatiable void within me, and if I was anywhere too long, I got restless and felt unsafe. Bored. Aching for change. Never content. I’ve filled this void with travel for so long. It’s jeopardized many good things for me — relationships, opportunities, and worst of all, my mental health.” This sentiment is beautifully echoed in the song Location by one of my favorite BlueGrass Bands, Damn Tall Buildings. “I think I’ll move to the oceans to try and figure out who I am,” Avery Ballotta ruefully sings about his inner conflict — accompanied only by the sound of a melancholy fiddle — as he finds himself torn between city, ocean and mountain.

This isn’t to say there aren’t good reasons to escape. Traveling to expand your horizons, build a better lifestyle or to pursue a mission are perfectly commendable pursuits. Traveling expands our minds, pushes us out of our comfort zones and makes us rethink our stereotypes and prejudices. It forces us to look at the world with a global mindset and to reexamine our cultural, political and social beliefs. As travel has become more accessible than ever and many millenials are left disillusioned with their prospects, it’s possible the nomadic lifestyle has presented itself as a much more appealing alternative to the dreary, traditional 9–5 for a generation hungry for purpose and meaning. But does the pursuit of purpose necessarily require physical travel or could purpose just as easily be found in your own backyard?