Leaving NYC To ‘Find Myself’ Like Every Annoying White Person In Southeast Asia

I left my apartment three months ago. Not for good. It was supposed to be two months, except we are now at two and a half, so clearly things are going according to plan. What I’m trying to say is: I left New York for a little bit to travel. I hate admitting I’m becoming one of those white people who goes backpacking through Southeast Asia and “finds themselves.”

Am I technically backpacking? I guess.

I mean, yes — everything I currently own is in a backpack. Which honestly I love because it makes it easy to randomly book flights and disappear to another country for a week when I get bored. Also, I don’t really like owning that much stuff. But I also don’t sleep in hostels. Though to be fair, some of the hotels I’ve stayed in have been concerning enough to qualify spiritually.

So yes. At the moment, my entire life fits into one backpack. Minus whatever I shoved under my bed in New York before my subletter moved in.

I don't think traveling is a competition of any sorts. But let it be known if you or anyone you know has backpacked in some crazy conditions, carrying a heavy backpack on your bare back, I see you, I acknowledge you and I hereby declare I don't care if you think that makes your stronger/better than me.

Anyways - I’d been working a lot before this trip. A lot a lot. And I love living in New York. Honestly, I don’t really see myself living anywhere else right now.

People often call it “the best city in the world,” which I actually think is a ridiculous statement because nobody has lived in every city in the world. So, how would anyone know? We just say things. Humans love declaring winners. Best pizza. Best city. Best poop. Meanwhile half the people saying this are emotionally unstable and paying $2,000 to live with four roommates in a shoebox. We all want different things. I don’t know that it’s fair to crown any city in the entire world “the best city in the world."

What I mean is: New York is the best city for me at this point in my life. But I was also working a job that was fun. Maybe a little too fun. Fun in the “this might become a problem eventually” kind of way.

And I needed a break.

Not all fun things are meant to last forever.

For years, I kept talking about traveling more seriously. Australia especially. I always wanted to go. Then suddenly the opportunity came up and I realized I either had to go now or keep talking about it for another five years.

So I quit my job. Probably the 40th job I’ve quit in my 28 years of life.

The first two months went by fast. I’ve been everywhere. Around people constantly, then completely alone. I’ve spent days exploring cities and days doing absolutely nothing. I’ve been journaling, sleeping, eating, writing.

And the weird thing about traveling is that seeing more of the world somehow only makes you realize how much you haven’t seen yet.

There’s always another place.

But the point of this trip wasn’t actually to “find myself.” I know that sounds disappointing for the narrative. I mostly just wanted to clear my head.

Because when I left New York, I genuinely had no idea what I wanted to do with my life.

And recently I’ve started realizing that maybe I actually do know. Which is honestly kind of pissing me off.