The American Dream redefined: A digital nomad on the meaning of ‘home’

Most of us assume we’ll check off our bucket list boxes ’someday.’ Typically that means when we retire, or after the kids leave home. That’s when we’ll find time to take a national parks tour, hop aboard that China river cruise. But what if something goes awry, and that plan is thrown into disarray?

Listen up, Don Quixote: your dream could quite literally become the impossible dream. What if ’someday’ never comes?

That question ran through my head on loop until I decided to turn ‘someday’ into now. My dream was to travel; to see as much of this world as was humanly possible.

I’ve now been semi-nomadic for four years and still stand firmly by my decision to leave life’s traditional paths behind and commit to living an unconventional lifestyle—one that’s in closer alignment to my soul. If I’ve learned anything in these 4 years, it’s to take a chance, do it scared, and remember: we are never guaranteed tomorrow.

The decision to depart came in 2013 when Ayaz and I decided to forgo the well-trodden trajectory of career, home, family. After working in digital media for a decade, we spent 2010 and 2011 backpacking around the world only to return to New York City and back into the arms of corporate America. I quickly decided I was not cut out for Manhattan cubicle life.

It’s been said that the more you travel and the more you see, the more you’ll want to see. And I couldn’t get enough of this great wide world.

I gather joy and fulfillment from people, places, journeys and experiences. I wanted to dive into a life that gave me the freedom to embrace those things. And thankfully, Ayaz agreed.

We put our worldly goods in storage, eked together enough freelance work to pay the bills, and took off into uncharted—at least for us—territory: the world of what’s called/known as location independence.

We’d have no permanent home to speak of; wandering wherever our hearts led us, working remotely, staying in sublets, and experiencing the many worlds that lay at our ever-changing doorstep.

It’s a lifestyle that’s obviously not universally appealing—nor is it always possible. I’d never suggest it’s the right path (or even an option) for everyone. But for us, it worked.

But on the road, we realized an uncomfortable truth. When asked the seemingly benign question, “Where do you live”, we had no good answer. Trying to explain our situation to strangers elicited a few standard responses. Either folks loved what we were doing and were inspired to learn more, or they looked baffled or disapproving and changed the subject. Often, they laughed it off as a lark on our part.

But this was no lark. This was my life.

At times, we felt extreme wonder at our circumstances. We spent our first stint in Miami, spending late afternoons strolling the beaches of Key Biscayne, gawking at street art in Wynwood, and living in a Bali-like bungalow in the lush Coconut Grove neighborhood.

Then we moved out West, where we camped alongside the dramatic Rio Grande River Gorge, watched full moon concerts in the ethereal landscape of White Sands National Monument, and soothed sore muscles in Colorado’s hot springs. In Montana, a weekend’s big decision might be whether to hike in Glacier National Park or Yellowstone. One afternoon while living in St. George, Utah, we decided on a whim to drive to the Grand Canyon’s north rim to watch sunset. It was glorious.

In these four years I’ve come to call a few dozen places ’home.’ Places I’ve lived, collected memories in, worked, shed tears, made new friends, learned about myself, and, yes, loved.

Later stints led us to eat way too much steak in Buenos Aires, ogle genetically superior people on Brazilian beaches, and live in a one-horse mountain town (literally, there was only one horse) in southern Spain.

At any given point, my world was strange, wonderful, and totally undefined in terms of the question, “What’s next?”

That can be a beautiful reality. It can also be a terrifying one.

Not having a place to call home has led me to consider the concept of what, exactly, ’home,’ implies. Typically, it’s a space, and perhaps it’s stuff as well—memories represented through photos, objects, family treasures passed through generations. All my ’stuff’ sat gathering dust in a 5′ x 15′ storage unit in Southampton, Pennsylvania. Did I miss it? Not even once. What I did miss was my tribe, my family and friends. Yes, you meet lots of people on the road. No, they’re generally not the same as your core people.

Two years ago, on a weekend trip to Orlando, I bought a small, circular, hanging cross-stitch that reads, ’Home Is Wherever I’m With You.’ It’s an old adage (and song lyric), but it’s also a stark truth that without a place to call home, Ayaz is my constant. I hang the cross-stitch in each apartment we slip into.

In these four years I’ve come to call a few dozen places ’home.’ Places I’ve lived, collected memories in, worked, shed tears, made new friends, learned about myself, and, yes, loved.

Once, leaving Miami Beach—a place we’ve returned to each year—I was overcome with the deepest heartache as I left my sublet apartment. The space was one I adored: large and modern, on the beach, overlooking the Miami skyline and sparkling blue waters of Biscayne Bay.

In that moment, I remembered how many times over the past few years my heart had broken a little bit as I said farewell to a space I loved. With each departure, I leave a little piece of my energy behind, and take a little of that space’s energy along with me. Each of these spaces has become, in its own way, my home. They’re a collection; they will stay in my heart.

To be sure, this is a fluid lifestyle. There are no rules to location independence—except the ones you make. There are some nomads who seem able to sustain this life endlessly. The hellos and goodbyes energize them into perpetuity. Others need a break.

Often, I want a base to call my own, somewhere to travel from—a place I say hello and goodbye to—again and again. I miss community. Still, I don’t know what creating a base will mean just yet—like everything else in the past four years, that remains undefined, and yes, a little bit scary.

My wanderlust, my gypsy soul, as it were, is a part of who I am. I can’t quell the desire to know and see more, more, more, wherever that might take me. Nor do I want to.

Each time I leave, I learn. I discover truths about myself, my fears, my limits; and also about others—insights into the human experience as a whole and into an America and a world that’s becoming increasingly more difficult to decipher.

When I skim apartment listings online, every so often I check the listings for Santa Fe. I look for my old casita, to make sure that it’s still there, that our landlord is still there. But there’s no sign of either.

Do it now.