It’s funny how we cling to our little corners of the world, isn’t it? We’re born in a place, grow roots, and often stay put until the end, surrounded by the same faces and routines. Yet, there’s this nagging urge to leave everything behind that tugs at so many of us—a quiet rebellion against the familiar. Maybe it’s the weight of the past pressing down, or the suffocating sense that life has become a rerun of itself. Whatever the reason, that itch to vanish into the unknown feels almost primal, like a compass inside us pointing toward some invisible horizon.
I remember when that feeling first hit me. It was 2010, and everything felt gray. A toxic relationship had unraveled, jobs were scarce, and I found myself stacking boxes in warehouses just to scrape by. Every street corner, every face, seemed to whisper reminders of failure. I’d daydream about becoming a nomad, drifting from city to city, or disappearing into the wilderness like some modern-day hermit. The idea of starting over somewhere—anywhere—felt like shedding a skin. New places meant new possibilities, right? A chance to outrun the ghosts of old mistakes.
But here’s the thing: running doesn’t erase what’s inside. Seneca nailed it centuries ago when he wrote that changing scenery won’t fix a troubled mind. “You need a change of soul, not climate,” he argued. And he’s not wrong. We carry our baggage wherever we go. That restlessness, that ache for something more—it’s sticky. It clings to you like humidity. I learned this the hard way when, after years of grinding, I finally landed a decent job and carved out a life that didn’t make me want to flee. The urge quieted. Not gone, just… dormant.
Still, the call never fully disappears. A few years back, watching friends pack up for Berlin or Barcelona, that old itch flared again. What if? What if I traded my routines for cobblestone streets and foreign skies? But this time, I paused. Was I chasing adventure or just running from boredom? Alain de Botton’s The Art of Travel comes to mind here—a book that unpacks why we romanticize escape. He writes how we expect new landscapes to fix us, only to find the same old selves waiting at the airport.
Yet, maybe there’s more to it than just chasing happiness. Existentialists like Sartre saw freedom as our burden and birthright. Leaving the familiar isn’t about happiness—it’s about claiming that freedom. Reinventing yourself in a place where no one knows your old stories. No labels, no expectations. Just blank space to rewrite who you are. It’s terrifying, sure, but also thrilling. Like hitting Ctrl+Alt+Delete on your life.
I think back to childhood, building Lego spaceships with my brothers. We’d send our little plastic astronauts to “discover” new planets—the living room couch, the backyard tree. Every trip to the grocery store became an interstellar mission. That sense of play, of endless possibility, never really leaves us. It’s coded into our DNA. The same curiosity that made our ancestors cross oceans now makes us bookmark flight deals at 2 a.m.
Maybe the urge to leave everything behind isn’t a flaw but a feature. A reminder that we’re wired to explore, to test boundaries. Even if we stay put, that restlessness simmers under the surface. It’s why we binge-watch travel vlogs or lose hours scrolling through Airbnb listings. We’re creatures of contradiction: craving safety but addicted to the rush of the unknown.
Of course, there’s no guarantee that moving will “fix” anything. I’ve met expats in foreign cafés who still radiate the same angst they carried from home. But I’ve also seen eyes light up when someone describes stumbling through a market in Marrakech or getting lost in Tokyo’s neon maze. It’s not about solving unhappiness—it’s about collecting moments that stretch your soul.
These days, I’ve found a middle ground. I haven’t vanished into the wilderness (yet), but I wander when the itch returns. A month here, a summer there. Enough to taste novelty without burning bridges. And each time, I return a little different—not because the places changed me, but because they reminded me how vast the world is. How small my worries seem under a sky full of unfamiliar stars.
So if you feel that tug to leave, don’t judge it. Maybe you’ll go. Maybe you’ll stay. Either way, it’s okay. The urge itself is a compass, not a verdict. It doesn’t mean you’re broken—just alive. Alive in a world that’s equal parts comforting and suffocating, routine and riot. And sometimes, the bravest thing isn’t packing a suitcase. It’s sitting still long enough to ask, What am I really running from?
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