I worry sometimes that I don't actually love traveling. I've had the great luck to have parents that travelled (with and without me) when I was a child — and that progression seemed only natural as I now creep towards my thirties. An American who loves to travel, how novel, but as I reach the three year mark of leaving the United States, I can't tell if this life is one that I love, or simply one that is easy.
Not easy by conventional means, starting over is hard — over and over and over; building new families, friends, and lives. I feel I have lived many lives in these few years, each new place means a new persona. The reinvention was thrilling at first, but I think I have lost myself somewhere, I've forgotten which new me and which old me I am. My life is curated for friends and family back home, it feels dishonest. But, no one wants to see the truly awful parts of being away from home, a choice I have made and don't intend to publicly whine about.
Living abroad is hard, and I don't think I love it anymore — perhaps I never did — but I can't imagine a more enriching penance.