Priviledged Homelessness

Somewhere around last year, I lost my job. It was one of those moments that should have felt catastrophic—like the floor falling out from under you—but instead, it felt oddly freeing, like a door swinging wide open. I was living in a nice apartment, the kind with a rental agreement that eats a chunk of your paycheck every month, and I had all the usual trappings of stability. But the minute I got that layoff notice, I felt something unexpected: a sense of fulfillment, a strange thrill that whispered, “Finally.”

You see, losing that job gave me a license to do something I’d secretly longed for: let go. Let go of the apartment, let go of the things that filled it, and let go of the idea that I needed to be tethered to one place and one lifestyle. So, I did. I got rid of almost everything I owned, compressing my life into an 18-kilo suitcase, and set off to see what would happen if I lived with just the essentials.

As I traveled, hopping from one place to the next, I realized that the most expensive, valuable things in life aren’t things at all. They’re the conversations you have over coffee with a stranger who becomes a friend, the sunset you watch alone on a foreign beach, and the quiet satisfaction of knowing you can carry everything you need with you. These are the riches that can’t be quantified, the treasures that don’t fit in a suitcase.

I would be lying if I didn’t admit that part of the reason I travel so much is because I have somehow been looking for a place that I can truly look at and call home. During my travels, I kept searching for that magical place, the one that would feel like it was made just for me. I had a checklist, a carefully curated list of what would make a place “home.” But the more I searched, the more I realized that this place didn’t exist. Not in the way I imagined, anyway. Home wasn’t something I could find; it was something I had to create, wherever I was. It is not a place; it’s a feeling. It’s where you feel safe, where you feel connected, where you feel understood. And that feeling doesn’t require four walls and a mortgage. It requires people who care about you, places that inspire you, and the courage to be yourself, wherever you are.

What I learned from my experience of privileged homelessness is this: you don’t need much to be happy. In fact, the less you have, the more room you make for the things that really matter. Strip away the excess, and what you’re left with are the essentials—relationships, experiences, and a sense of purpose that can’t be bought or sold.

So, if you’re feeling weighed down by life, if you’re struggling to find your place in the world, consider this: maybe it’s not about finding the right place at all. Maybe it’s about finding the right mindset. Maybe home is something you carry with you, something you create as you go. And maybe, just maybe, the less you carry, the freer you’ll be.