I viewed travel as a way to reset my life. Yet, I didn’t think through all the implications.
Usually, when I move, I have a new address to point to. A place on a map that will house me and my belongings.
But this time, my new mailing address would not be my actual home. It would be a placeholder because I was becoming a long-term international traveler.
Before the move, I was experiencing a range of emotions: excitement, anxiety, fear, doubt, guilt, regret, relief, joy, grief.
I was selling my childhood home in a Washington, DC suburb, where my parents had reared and educated my brother and me.
At various stages of my life, I had returned to the brick ranch house on a hill to look after my parents. The first time was in my twenties to care for my terminally ill mother, and later, in my forties, to fulfill my elderly father’s wish of never living in a nursing home.
For twelve years, I was my father’s primary caregiver, until his death, and then I hunkered down in the house eight more years, debating what to do next and where to do it.
The longer I remained, the more firmly I became cemented to the property.
My parents had paid off the mortgage decades before, so the house provided me with a rent-free place to live. I was a ghostwriter, which I could do from anywhere, but I feared making impulsive decisions.
Making the leap into long-term international travel.
My dreams had taken a backseat to being a long-term caregiver. Now, in my fifties, I have never been married, with no children, with nothing tethering me to a specific location.
Clinging to my childhood home only shackled me to my past.
My restlessness led me to contact a Chicagoan, who was a digital nomad who lived in Italy for six years. She urged me to take an extended vacation, to test the waters in a new country or region.
Initially, I considered visiting Costa Rica, my father’s homeland, but the opportunity to experience the Mediterranean lifestyle tilted my decision toward Europe.
I told my brother that I was ready to sell our childhood home, which we both co-owned. He and his family lived in a separate residence.
I spent the next several months sorting through closets, drawers, and a storage room to dispose of old files, bank statements, and school report cards. Before it was all over, I carried six carloads of paper to a shredding service.
The dated furniture in the house wound up in a landfill. I created three piles for my belongings with different destinations: trash, storage, or Europe (with me).
Signs I was on the right path.
The night before the house went on the market, I freaked out in my kitchen. It was May 2025, around my birthday.
I didn’t expect the moment that came next.
I had purchased travel insurance with my plane ticket to Crete, Greece, for June 2025, which allowed me to cancel my plans without penalty. But to my surprise, the house sold in one day, and the speedy sale felt like a sign to GET OUT.
Packing for a three-month trip prevented me from having a full-blown meltdown. I squeezed clothing, toiletries, medicines, and electronics into a backpack, a carry-on bag, and a medium-size suitcase (28 inches).
This was no small feat. If I were grading myself, I would give myself a B-. I brought unnecessary items such as extra containers of lotion and too few Claritin tablets.
Preparing for change before traveling abroad.
After selling the house, I waited sixteen days before leaving for Greece. I spent the first four nights in a hotel, which I wasn’t prepared to do.
The first night, I slept in a local hotel room with no windows, and the cave-like vibe spooked me. I moved to the DoubleTree by Hilton Washington DC North/Gaithersburg.
Sunlight brightened the room, the sleek bathroom provided Crabtree & Evelyn toiletries, and the front desk staff said, “Have a good day,” and meant it.
But I found living out of suitcases to be frustrating and overwhelming. I couldn’t remember where I put anything.
My security blanket—a thick red bathrobe—was stored in a facility thirty miles away. The lack of permanence in my surroundings left me yearning for a more relaxed place to find my bearings.
Emotional support made preparing for travel easier.
Thankfully, Aunt Rhodie, a lifelong family friend, stepped in. She insisted I stay with her the last week before I headed to New York City to say goodbye to my family.
She spoiled me with her motherly hugs and lemon pound cake, but she gave me space to run last-minute errands.
I left for New York City on a rainy day in June. My friend Iona drove me to catch a train, and in her gentle voice, she reminded me to take a deep breath and exhale.
Her parting words to me were, “Home is wherever you are.”
For five nights, I stayed in Brooklyn, reconnecting with my three surviving sisters—Eloisa, Celia, and Martha—and their families.
Celia dyed my hair jet black. Eloisa, my oldest sister, took me to get my hair braided for the first time.
I sat in the salon chair for five hours, watching up to four Senegalese women add hair and braid it longer than Angela Bassett’s hairstyle in How Stella Got Her Groove Back.
When I turned to the mirror, I noticed decades of stress had vanished from my face. Now, I was ready for Greece, Italy, Spain, Turkey, Austria, Portugal, and the Czech Republic.
On the day of my flight, Eloisa and her husband dropped me off at JFK Airport three hours early. As we drew closer, I clenched my new crossbody bag, believing my mother would have said that I was strong enough to do this.
My brother-in-law stopped his SUV and opened the passenger door. I choked back tears as Eloisa grabbed me in a tight hug. This was happening. I was on my way to Europe.