Nomad Stories: Tatiana

The way I started travelling? I booked a ticket, packed a bag, and flew to Phuket. Simple as that. At first, I travelled with a friend for a month, which was a great way to ease into it. We eventually parted ways, and I continued on my own. Looking back, I’m glad I had that first month with a friend—it made solo travel less intimidating.

There were a few major moments that shaped me, and most of them had to do with culture shock. Living in countries so different from my own made me zoom out of my world and realize that my way of life was just one reality.

One of the most defining moments was when I volunteered in Hoi An. I lived in a house full of artists, all with completely different backgrounds and passions. Sharing a space with so many creative people taught me what it means to live in a community. Every major lesson I learned while traveling came from the people I met. A place can be stunning but if you’re with people you don’t connect with, it won’t feel like much. On the other hand, even the most random, unremarkable place can feel like magic when you’re with the right people.

I originally planned to travel for just five or six months, so I wasn’t prepared for the reality of living abroad. Legally, I was missing so many papers—things I would’ve needed to actually build a life in another country. If I had known I was going to stay longer, I would’ve planned better. But at the same time, there was something exciting about deciding in the moment that I wasn’t ready to leave.

If there’s one thing I wish I had known beforehand, it’s how exhausting constant movement can be. Backpacking sounds romantic, but packing up and relocating every two or three days drains you. And the loneliness—yeah, that can hit hard. One day you’re surrounded by people, and the next, you’re completely on your own.

My advice? Don’t over-plan. Have a rough idea, but be ready for that plan to fall apart. In my experience, every time I tried to stick to a plan, things went the opposite way—and it was always for the better. Listen to the locals. They know their shit better than you do. Don’t think you’re invincible. Just because you’re traveling doesn’t mean nothing bad can happen. Be smart about your safety.

The Art of Asking for Help

I don’t like asking for help, plain and simple. It’s an uncomfortable thing to ask of anyone around me. Whether it’s help with something, money, planning, or anything. It just doesn’t sit right with me. For almost my entire life, I lived that way, thinking that asking for help was a sign of weakness, that it was a last resort that half the time I didn’t even consider a resort in the first place. It wasn’t until I was stranded in a Bangkok airport with no money and waiting for a visa for Vietnam that I reluctantly swallowed my pride and asked for help.

I had been volunteering in Vietnam for a month when it was time to do the famous visa run. In Vietnam, you need to renew your visa once a month, which can be easily done by flying into a different country, renewing, and flying back the same day. When my turn came, I flew to Bangkok. With my bad luck, my visa didn’t come in as fast as I’d hoped. I was in Bangkok airport, with barely any money, no place to sleep, and the hope that my visa would get approved as soon as possible. What should’ve been less than ten hours in the airport turned into an overnight stay, sleeping on uncomfortable chairs pressed against the wall so I wouldn’t fall off. The morning came, and my visa got approved, but with no money for a flight back, I was still screwed. After a couple of hours of scrambling for a solution, I did something that I didn’t think I would do for a long time: call my dad. My dad and I had a complicated relationship that led to us not speaking for more than three years. At this point, I wouldn’t know if he would even pick up the phone, let alone help me. But I had to try. I was at the end of my wit, and I needed a way out.

So, I called him. I called a man I hadn’t spoken to for years to ask for his help in the middle of Southeast Asia. The conversation went unexpectedly okay. I was expecting a full lecture on making bad decisions and irresponsibility. Instead, for the first time in my life, I heard fear in my dad’s voice. He was worried about me, and even though the last time we spoke, we fought for hours, it was like that didn’t matter anymore. He helped me, got me a flight back to Vietnam and back home, and gave me some change to help me survive my time in Asia.

It took a moment for me to realize what had just happened. I told my dad I loved him, and before hanging up the phone, I could hear his voice break and realized that it was something he had wanted to hear for a long time. The money landed in my bank account, and I just stared at it. Where used to be a measly seven euros was that same seven but with two extra zeros. I felt saved, relieved, but weird at the same time. I didn’t know how to feel; so much was happening at once, and I felt frozen to my chair, just staring out at nothing, letting my thoughts take over for a bit.

Growing up, I always wanted to be independent. I was in my own world, did my own things, and just couldn’t wait to be old enough to do whatever I wanted. At sixteen, I wished I could move out of my parents’ house and live on my own. My life, my house, my rules. Unfortunately, I had to accept that I wasn’t at all mature enough at that age to live on my own, let alone take care of myself completely. However, when I turned eighteen, that’s when it happened. I got to move out, live on my own, and do what I had wanted to do for so long. It kick-started a life of independence that ultimately led me to leave my hometown forever to travel the world and discover what this planet had to offer.

It wasn’t glamorous. I spent a lot of time living on dimes and relying on others’ generosity to get by. This generosity gave me the opportunity that changed the trajectory of my life forever: a job in Paris. The receptionist at the hostel I had stayed in for months, who had consistently shaved off a couple of euros off the bed prices for me, recommended me to his former employer. I had fallen in love with Paris from the moment I stepped off the train, and I was determined to stay as long as I could. This man, virtually a stranger, had, probably without realizing it, given me a lifeline. It wasn’t verbal, it wasn’t a big gesture. It was a nod and showing me the screen as he changed the prices in my reservation. All I could do was nod back and try my hardest to make the most of the extra time he gave me. Since then, it’s been job after job, country after country, making my way slowly through the world. I’d like to tell you that I did all of that by myself, but the truth is, and the core of this article, is that I had a lot of help.

For the last two months, the trajectory of my path has changed dramatically. I left Amsterdam due to losing my job and my home at the same time. I ran out of money, and I simply didn’t know what to do. The generosity of my friends is what has allowed me not to end up on the street somewhere. Even though I still don’t feel good about the fact that I did it, tucking my tail between my legs and stuttering my way through the question of ‘’can you help me?’’, I now understand that sometimes we have to be blunt about it and ask for help when we really need it.

An old friend of mine told me recently that no one successful has made it without help from someone or something. The more I go through life, the more I realize it’s true. Being fully independent doesn’t exist anymore. No matter your background or the path you’re on, you’ll receive help from somewhere that’ll push you a bit further into your journey to make it to where you want to be. Personally, that made me uncomfortable for a long time.

I used to think asking for help was a weakness. Like it meant I was failing at being independent, at holding my life together. I grew up believing I had to figure things out on my own, and when I couldn’t, I buried it under pride.

But pride doesn’t pay bills. It doesn’t keep you afloat when the ground falls out beneath you.

The first time I really asked for help, I was sitting in a bar in Amsterdam with two friends. My voice felt like it was caught in my throat, each word heavy and awkward. I stumbled, stuttered, and hesitated. The shame hit before the words even landed.

Still, I asked. And instead of judgment, what I got was kindness. A reminder that the people in my life didn’t need me to be unbreakable, they just needed me to be real. Amsterdam left me with that memory of sitting across from friends, stuttering my way through the question of “Can you help me?”

Turns out, asking for help doesn’t make you weak. It just makes you human.

The Exit Strategy

‘Home is where the heart is,’ ‘home is where I put my backpack,’ if there’s anything that defines being a nomad, it’s this: the ability to make any place a home, no matter where, when, or how. It isn’t the copious amounts of epic experiences we’ve collected over the years, the sights we’ve seen, or the bragging rights for the longest flight taken without entertainment. Being a nomad means that you won’t always have a comfortable place to sleep, that you can throw privacy out the window, and that you’ll often sacrifice a good bed for a cheaper deal. But, no matter what, we can use what we have to turn wherever we are into a temporary place to call home.

I recently read a post saying that once you’ve travelled long-term, you’ve accepted that nowhere will ever truly feel like home. To a lot of people, that might sound scary, but for me, it sounds like a comfort, and I’m guessing that if you’re still reading, it’s a comfort for you too. There’s an exciting beauty in not knowing where you’ll lay your head next, that you could be sleeping in a new friend’s villa or a cozy little hostel on the edge of the city. Being resilient and adaptable is something to be proud of, and really, it’s something you can only learn by doing what we do best: surrendering to the unknown, embracing the discomfort, and simply being lost.

Travel Won’t Save You

I used to think I could outrun my problems. That if I just kept moving—new countries, new people, new versions of myself—then eventually, I’d stumble upon the person I was supposed to be. But here’s the thing about running: the only thing that you never really get better at is avoiding yourself. No matter how far I went, my reflection followed. It sat next to me on overnight buses, stared at me in hostel mirrors, crept into my thoughts when the noise died down. If you’re here looking for a way to escape, you won’t find it. But if you’re looking for a way to make peace with the fact that some things can’t be outrun, you’re in the right place.

After having spent almost four months in Southeast Asia, my Vietnamese visa was about to expire, and the recommended way to take care of this issue was to fly to Bangkok, renew the visa, and once it had been renewed, fly back to Vietnam. Easy as that. After flying into Bangkok, I realized that my visa wasn’t getting approved as fast as I’d hoped it would, and my bank account was running dangerously low. Long story short, I slept on a very uncomfortable bench in Bangkok Airport. You’d think that my problems ended there. Remember when I said my bank account was running dangerously low? Well, getting back to Vietnam required some funds I didn’t have. I spent a good hour trying to come up with a solution, and after panicking for a while, I realized that the only thing I could do was to call my dad to ask for help, someone I hadn’t spoken to for a couple of years at best. After a long and somewhat awkward phone call, I was rescued by my dad, and I was able to continue my trip a little longer.

I think we all have a certain idea of what it means to be a nomad, to travel long-term. Exploring, seeing the world, meeting amazing people, and simply being the best versions of ourselves. Those aspects of travel are all true, but what we often overlook are the reality checks we might be hit with along the way.

It’s easy for any of us to fall into a state of negativity. Fair enough, you’re in a foreign country, alone, and things might’ve gone horribly wrong. I think you’ve earned the right to complain, no? Nobody will blame you for feeling down. But, it’s important to remember that just because something went wrong now, it doesn’t mean it’ll only go wrong from now on.

The truth is, shit happens all the time. You might miss a flight, get Bali Belly, break up with your partner in the middle of your epic trip, or just break down in complete and utter despair. At the end of the day, it’s not the obstacle that defines us; it’s how we overcome it. As someone who still struggles with overcoming obstacles properly, I can tell you that practice makes perfect.

The little things—a sunset you didn’t think you’d catch, the smile of a stranger, or a familiar voice over the phone—can be lifelines when things get overwhelming. A good cup of coffee, a sunset you didn’t think you’d catch in time, a smile of a stranger, or simply hearing the voices of your parents over the phone when you call them. I know it sounds a bit too easy when you read it like this, but once you get in the habit of taking those moments and using them to recharge yourself, you’ll notice that the obstacles seem far less intimidating.

It’s okay to spend some days doing absolutely nothing. I know that this might seem a bit like a waste of your trip, but trust me when I say that I wish I did it more often. I can’t tell you how many times I was worried I wasn’t doing enough to make my trip worth it, so I would fill every single moment of my day with something. However, this made me feel overwhelmed, and most importantly, I wasn’t feeling as excited about exploring as I did before. Sights didn’t have the same impact, new food didn’t taste as good, and meeting new people felt like a strain. My point is, it’s okay to be an introvert sometimes. To lie in your hostel bed for a couple of hours and watch Netflix or take a nap. To spend some time doing absolutely nothing.

The Art of Moving Mountains

Starting from zero is a strange kind of freedom. Not the romantic kind, but the real kind. We never truly start from nothing. We never truly start from zero. Our past experiences, skills we’ve learned along the way, and decisions we’ve made, they stick with us. But when you’re out of money, with no job and no place to sleep, it feels like zero.

And that’s where I’m at, right now, writing this.

A month ago, I took a risk. It backfired. I lost my job, my home, and any illusion of control I had. I told myself it was the universe giving me a sign. But the universe doesn’t pay for your bus ticket, or your next meal. Without a plan or money, freedom quickly starts to feel like a trap.

I’m still figuring it out. Where to go, how to make money, who to ask for help. That last one matters more than you think.

Because even with all the rough history between me and my father, he’s still there. Still helping. I wouldn’t have made it this far without him. But in your 20s, pride is expensive. You don’t want to keep showing up at your parents’ doorstep, tail tucked between your legs. Swallowing your pride is a sacrifice that no one prepares you for.

But if you’re in the same place — broke, scared, and unsure — here’s what I’ll say:

Be radical. Take a risk that scares you. Not because it’s brave, but because you’ve got nothing to lose. Go volunteer on another continent. Work on a farm. Pick up a new skill. Trade the overstimulation of the city for the sound of waves on the beach, or do the opposite.

And if you’ve got a support system, use it. Even if it hurts to ask.

But whatever you do, go all in. Don’t half-ass this. Make a decision and stick to it until it either works or it teaches you something.

It took me a long time to understand that choosing flight over fight just delays the inevitable. Growth doesn’t happen in the running — it happens when you stay. When you stick it out a week longer. When you take that job in a place you’ve never been. When you finally do the thing that’s always scared you. That’s where the magic is.

I hate to admit it, but the gurus aren’t always wrong. Sometimes it does take a mountain to turn your life around.

In my case, it was a Matterhorn-sized mountain.

Yours might be smaller. Or bigger. But whatever it is, climb it.

The Night I Stopped Traveling Alone

When I left my hometown forever, I thought that I’d spend most of my journey alone. As a teenager, I preferred to spend time behind my laptop in the virtual worlds of video games. Honestly, talking to or meeting strangers was terrifying to me. After spending my first month traveling alone and speaking only to the friends I was meeting, I felt like I was missing out, missing something. No matter where I was, I was alone. I didn’t have anyone to share these moments with. Even though I was terrified of talking to strangers, the urge to have people around grew stronger.

My first time in Paris, before I had the pleasure of moving to the city, I had found myself a hostel in the 11th arrondissement. It was my first hostel ever, and I didn’t know what to expect. As soon as I walked through the door, carrying my backpack and suitcase in hand, I knew I had to change something. The hostel had a warmth, a cozy feeling that made everything feel like it’d be okay. There was a group of strangers sitting at the large table in the middle of the room. Chatting, laughing, drinking together. I don’t know what eventually convinced me, but I checked in, and before even settling into my room, I sat down and asked to join them. The shy loner had made new friends in the blink of an eye, and it changed the entire course of my journey.

From that moment on, meeting new people became a vital part of my travels. I knew that from now on, meeting people was essential. It wasn’t just about not being alone in a foreign country; it was about sharing moments with others, finding people with different stories, different histories, and different aspirations in life. I know it’s a cliché, but you really can’t predict who you might meet, and who they might become in your life.

Level One

You land in a place you’ve never been before. The air smells wrong, or maybe it smells better. You can’t tell yet. Your bag’s heavier than you thought. Your phone’s at 9%. You don’t know the language. You don’t know the streets. You don’t know where the hell the bus stop is.

Nobody here knows you. Nobody cares.

This is Level One. No saves. No cheat codes. Just you, standing there, deciding whether to take the first step or freeze. And here’s the truth, you’re supposed to feel lost. That’s the point.

It’s a weird thing, walking away from the you that’s been living your life up until now. Like peeling off a skin that doesn’t fit anymore. You leave it in a heap behind you and walk out into the world wearing nothing but your newness. First time you do it, it’s a rush. Like your first tattoo. And just like tattoos, one’s never enough.

You learn quick: you can’t really step into a new place unless you’re ready to burn the map and start from zero. Everything you knew back home? Worthless here. Your clever shortcuts, your go-to bars, your Sunday routines, they don’t translate. Most people hate that. They clutch at what’s familiar like it’s a life raft. Me? I think it’s the point.

There’s that line, something about how if you don’t read, you only live one life, but if you do, you live a hundred. And Gandalf, the old bastard, nailed it: the world’s not in your books and maps. It’s out there. Those two together? That’s gospel.

Every border is a clean slate. A bed you’ve never slept in, air that smells like something you can’t name yet, a language that makes you feel like a child when you try to speak it. You get to decide who you are all over again. Nobody knows your story here. No one cares.

So tell me, what’s going to stop you?

The Art of Being Lost

Nobody prepares you for your 20s. They tell you it’s the best time of your life, but they forget to mention the part where you’re broke, confused, and completely winging it. It took me a while to come up with a line that would blow you away and capture you to keep reading. I came up empty, as you can see. I began, started overthinking, asked friends for help, and landed where you’re witnessing now—there isn’t a good way to start this. This is also how I would describe being in your 20s. A lot of overthinking, asking friends for help, and coming to the conclusion that there isn’t a good way to live this part of your life. So, if there isn’t a right way to live your 20s, why not live it all the wrong ways instead? Hell, there might even be an art to it.

To give you some context as to how my 20s have gone so far, I’ll give you a quick recap. From the moment the borders opened again during COVID-19, I got my vaccinations. I left my hometown in the Netherlands to go explore the world and see what’s out there. I lived in a couple of countries working as a bartender, met some incredible people along the way, made some questionable decisions, and learned that I am the absolute worst with money.

The last one is an understatement. I can’t even remember the number of times I’ve been on the verge of homelessness, feeling like a failure who just got lucky the first time. Or the number of times I had only a few euros in my account while in a foreign country. I would impulsively quit a job, like working at a resort in Greece only to quit after four days because the bar violated every health code known to man. To pursue other jobs or release myself from the bonds of boredom. As you can imagine, this doesn’t do wonders for your mental health, leaving me in a state of stress and questions I didn’t have the answer to. I’m only 25, but in those years, it’s safe to say, I felt lost.

Having said all that, it’s been an absolute blast. Granted, I’m a glutton for punishment. Being a bartender living the life I’ve been living, working long hours, and drinking during most of the shifts. I, and many others, are surprised I’m still alive and kicking.

But, because of this, I was able to live in amazing cities like Paris and Hanoi, and meet some crazy and amazing people that I still consider friends to this day. I was able to get some unreal opportunities that I would’ve never gotten otherwise, like moving to Iceland and spending eight months in the middle of nowhere. I’ve slept in airports, taken countless time-consuming FlixBus’s to save money, got into some weird relationships, and had embarrassing calls with my dad after 3 years of not speaking. But, it was all worth it.

I’ll dive deeper into everything along the way, but hopefully this’ll give you a decent impression of what my life has been like so far. More importantly, what it’ll most likely still be in the near future. I didn’t make the right decisions, and I didn’t think through most of the things I was doing. Honestly, I still don’t. But what do people always say? Your 20s are for making mistakes and learning lessons, right?

As I said from the start, there must be an art to all of this, an art to being lost. Having met a lot of people all over the world, I know for a fact that I’m not the only one. There’s a bunch of us out there, wandering this planet, waiting for lightning to strike us, giving us some grand answer about our life’s purpose. If we’re all lost anyway, we might as well make it worthwhile, no?