My roommate thought I’d finally snapped.
"If you’re burnt out, just book a flight to Cancun for two weeks," she said, watching me stare at a map as if it were a prayer mat.
"I don’t want a vacation," I told her. "I want an exit."
A two-week escape wasn't enough to fix a life that didn't fit. I didn't want a holiday; I wanted a different reality. I hated the term "digital nomad"—it felt like a hollow social media aesthetic. Yet, it was the only blueprint that offered me back my own time.
I realized then that I wasn't "planning" a move. I had already checked out. I was a ghost in my own cubicle. My mind was already halfway across the world, navigating foreign streets and breathing different air, leaving my physical body behind to finish the paperwork.