6 articles

There is a particular kind of heartbreak that does not come from loss. It comes from watching someone you love remain in a life that is slowly dimming them. You see it in the way they speak about themselves. In the exhaustion that never lifts. In the habits they defend but quietly resent.

Sometimes, stepping away from everything you know is the only way to truly see it.We all have places we’ve outgrown, or thought we had. The home that once felt heavy, the routine that seemed suffocating, the four walls that turned into a mirror for our restlessness. But what if it wasn’t the place holding you back? What if it was what you carried inside it?

Home has been in flux for me lately. With travel comes the idea that I’m a nomad, that I can become comfortable wherever I lay my head. And to some extent, it’s true. I open a suitcase, light some incense, set up a playlist, and move on my yoga mat, and I feel grounded. A sense of home lives in these rituals.

We’ve been in Vietnam for 12 days, and I’d be lying if I said it’s been plain sailing. After the peace we found in Bali, this rhythm of packing up and moving every 4–5 days feels tedious. There was something grounding about our daily yoga practice there, something magical in the stillness that gave our time structure and soul. Now, without that anchor, we find ourselves drifting, disoriented and restless.

I wrote this piece back in April 2022, and it feels poetic that it still holds relevance now, three years later, in April 2025. I’ve left most of it unchanged. It speaks to something tender about the way time carries us—sometimes with a gust, other times with the softest nudge from one place to the next.

It was Einstein that said, “The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, but expecting different results.” I think we all tend to do this in some capacity. We wait for a change to happen, hoping someone or something will rescue us. We can seem powerless to take responsibility.