On Becoming (More of) a Homebody
On Becoming (More of) a Homebody
It’s not that people give up on fun—it’s that what counts as fun changes
In my mid-twenties, I tucked the words experience junkie into my Twitter bio. I had taken the (apparently millennial) maxim experiences over things to heart.
And the most sought-after experience? Travel. Obviously.
Travel is the only thing you buy that makes you richer I parroted—like a living Instagram meme—to the people who questioned what, exactly, I was doing: a young woman alone at the bar in Flagstaff or Savannah or Barcelona.
What’s here for you, in Spain? the customs agent had asked when I’d arrived, exhausted but bright-eyed, eagerly proffering my passport. A week later, I used his quote to caption an Instagram photo: my bare legs kicked up and crossed, a plate of Manchego and chorizo on the table, a jar of the sea glass I’d pulled from the beach in fistfuls. Self-evident answers.
Take advantage of this while you can, my mother would say when I called. In her eyes, my fate was inevitable: I’d settle down. I’d become a wife, a mother.
I turned 35 last month, and thus far am neither—a status I have no immediate plans to change. Still, I am less free than I was in some ways.
Almost five years ago, I drove the 17-foot travel trailer I lived in at the time south over the I-5 bridge into Portland. Glancing over my left shoulder at Mount Hood, perched powdered-donut white over the Columbia, I thought, maybe I should stay for a while.
Less than a month later, I signed a lease on a studio apartment. I’d still travel all the time, I told myself—I’d just have a steady home base. Three months after that, the U.S. saw its first documented COVID case. For the first time in the better part of a decade, I stayed in the same state for a whole year, living day in and day out in the same place (spare a few one-off road trips, all within Oregon).
I was extraordinarily lucky to find real community in a new-to-me city during that time, pandemic notwithstanding—community that has expanded since. I’ve made enough genuine friends in Portland to feel like I’m constantly overdue on catching up with somebody. I’m a regular at the Sunday farmers market and the local spin studio; I know my neighbors’ names (and even a few of their phone numbers). I have a routine and a cozy home and a big, silly dog who would be very difficult to fly with.
All these are things to be grateful for—and also, things that make it harder to get away.
I planned over a dozen trips this year, ranging from international adventures to quick weekend blips to the coast. (I am an obscenely fortunate person, I know.) Most, I went through with—but three of those trips, I cancelled, and three remain to be seen.
All the cancellations have their own, ultimately irrelevant, logic. And all of them send a flare of shame through me when I speak them aloud. There’s something guilty in it, somehow; something tantamount to admitting an error.
But the process of canceling itself? Of actually hitting the yes button when the airline or Airbnb asks, Are you sure? The emotion that rings there is clear and bright. John Mulaney said it best: “In terms of, like, instant relief, cancelling plans is like heroin.”
Now that I’ve found myself seeking that fix three times in one year, I’ve had to interrogate my identity as traveler—not only whether the label still applies, but also why it ever factored into my identity in the first place.
As a child, I’d approach my parents on Sunday evenings after a pair of lazy days spent reading in my room. We didn’t do anything this weekend, I’d whine. I meant: We’d had an opportunity—free time—and we’d wasted it, a mistake I promised myself I’d never repeat once I was old enough to make my own plans.
In my early twenties, I spent many weekends drunk and dancing with strangers, treating sticky dance floors like church and early-morning rides home like rituals. (The holy water, I’m embarrassed to say, was Goldschläger.) Pressing my body into the clutch of anonymous others, I promised myself I’d never grow up—insofar as growing up meant forgetting my wildness. Grown-ups—the nine-to-five couples whose children pushed tricycle pedals in suburban cul-de-sacs; the people who saw the sunrise while waking up instead of passing out—had clearly forgotten all about fun.
I see now that I misunderstood. It’s not that people give up on fun as they age—it’s that what counts as fun changes.
I’ll always be grateful for how much of the world I’ve gotten to see. And there’s still so much that I want to do. I still want to put myself in the path of the aurora borealis (which I missed when they dipped down to Portland in May of this year because I was, yes, in bed); now that I have a working grasp of Spanish, I’d love to immerse myself for a month in Mexico City or Buenos Aires.
But I’m coming to understand that it’s not just that adult life is harder to get away from—it’s also, at least in my case, less attractive to do so. Why would I want to get away from my routine and my community when they bring me so much genuine grounding and comfort?
As wonderful as my frenetic traveling twenties were—and they were—they came largely out of fear: Fear of wasting time, fear of missing out. Fear of not living fully.
But living fully doesn’t have to mean trying to see everything—an aim which, spoiler alert, you are guaranteed not to achieve. (This will likely not be my last time saying so, but everyone should read Four Thousand Weeks.)
My thirties, so far, have been about learning to step into the joy of opting in rather than scuttling under the thumb of the fear of missing out—to let go of experiential maximalism and winnow down the experiences that are truly worth choosing.
Sometimes, it is an international flight or a cross-country drive. And sometimes, it’s waking up in the 6 a.m. dark, brewing my own little cup of coffee and tipping in heavy cream because that’s how I like it—or walking down to the cafe where the barista remembers my face and my order. Or taking advantage of an unexpected warm fall afternoon reading in the hammock, gazing up into the Douglas fir who greets me every morning in my upstairs bedroom window.
There is enough in just that view, after all—the fractal branches, the infinite needles and cones—that I will never see it all.
But if I get still, if I stay where I am—I can try. I can pay attention.
Psst—hi! I usually just dump an essay on you, but this time, I have a few quick notes.
First: A shout-out to Alexandra Middleton, whose gorgeous essay, “Body All the Way Down,” was published last month. Allie was the first writer I got to work with in my role as assistant editor for the essays column at The Rumpus, and her words are consistently stunning. You can find more of them on her own Substack, The Liminal, which “is an inquiry-in-writing about all things betwixt & between.”
Second: You may have noticed that the “bi-weeklyish” modifier has been removed from Change of Heart’s “About” page. Although, realistically, probably you didn’t—and realistically you probably aren’t particularly concerned about receiving less email. But in any case, since it is a change, I wanted to let you know that this newsletter will be scaling back to a monthlyish cadence for the foreseeable future. Writing is a lot of work and I do truly believe in keeping these words free for all, and yet: A girl has to eat. (And also write other things. And also take the occasional hammock break.) If you’d like to help make Change of Heart more sustainable, please consider upgrading to a paid subscription! And remember: Submissions are always open.