TL;DR
Over the last 10–12 years, I’ve traveled extensively for work—mostly in B2B sales of raw material, especially essential oils (next time I'll share you my works and my career). My younger self saw travel as freedom and prestige, in fact when someone what would I'd be when I grow up-I'd say, "I want to be rich and traveling around the world.". Now? It's routine, sometimes rewarding, but mostly just tiring, unless there's (huge) shopping involved. This is a reflection of what travel gave me (and what it didn’t), the stories in between, and whether I’d recommend this lifestyle to anyone else.
Back Then: The Girl Who Wanted to Fly
In my early 20s, travel felt like a dream come true. It meant freedom. It meant being a slightly cooler, freer version of myself—especially when I was traveling solo. I got to be anonymous, spontaneous, even a bit reckless. There was something intoxicating about airports, accents, and the idea that every new city was a chance to be someone new.
At one point, I was flying to Singapore back and forth every month for some time—because I was seeing someone there. Desperate? Probably. Romantic? Debatable. Memorable? Umm... honestly I barely remember what it was. But it was one of the first times I experienced just how deeply personal motives could blend with professional travel. I was navigating two kinds of things at once—emotional and physical.
Most of my travels weren’t luxurious holidays, though. They were work trips. One meeting to another, with a quick visit to a tourist spot squeezed in if time allowed. But back then, even that felt magical. I could walk 15–20k steps a day through a city I barely knew, grabbing coffee from a kiosk, blending in, floating between time zones and intentions.
My younger self thought I had made it. From a family where I was the first woman (on my mother’s side) with a university degree, this globetrotting version of me was a major level-up. "Kerjanya jalan-jalan keluar negeri terus," people would say. And I ate it up. It gave me pride, but also a sense of escape from expectations back home.
The Airport Life: Pride in a Passport
Airports became a sort of second home. I loved (remember, loved, past tense) airport lounges, the click of suitcase wheels, the sterile calm of boarding gates. The sound of immigration stamps hitting my passport was a thrill—tangible proof that I was going somewhere, doing something.
When I finally made it to the States, that stamp felt like a medal of resilience. I remember being so proud—because it wasn't just about going to America. It was about overcoming the bureaucracy, the wait, the uncertainty. It meant I had reached a new level.
I wasn’t someone who collected souvenirs. My travel didn’t revolve around keychains or magnets. But I do still have a pair of socks I bought at JFK during a freezing midnight layover. The airport was half-closed, the vending machines overpriced, and I was tired—but in that moment, I also felt incredibly alive. Those socks have survived many moves since.
What’s funny is that I rarely revisit photos or travel videos. But when I do, they remind me of how proud I felt in those small, silent victories. How travel made me feel visible to myself in a way that nothing else did.
When Travel Becomes the Job
Traveling for work is a very different beast. It’s not the dreamy aesthetic version—it’s early morning flights, rushed lunches, and a lot of logistics. It's closing sales, surviving time zones, adjusting to local etiquette, and keeping your energy up through all of it. Often, I would arrive in a city with barely enough time to unpack before heading into a full day of meetings. It’s a rhythm that doesn’t leave much space for spontaneity or self-reflection.
One trip to Germany felt like a dream. The meetings were productive, the air crisp with late winter, and I even had time for a short fling that added a layer of personal excitement to the professional success. In contrast, a trip to India was overwhelming—non-stop car honking, chaotic energy, and exhausting negotiations. It was difficult to stay focused when everything around me felt too intense. The culture shock and pace wore me down, even though I appreciated the experience in hindsight, and the comfort of Thai Food.
Work travel taught me that showing up matters. Emails, calls, and Zoom can only do so much. Sitting across from someone, even in silence, often says more than a well-written proposal. There’s a human element that tech can’t replicate. And while I learned to find moments of calm in all the chaos, I also learned the limits of what I could handle—emotionally and physically. Not every trip is glamorous, but each one leaves an imprint, big or small.
Did Travel Change Me?
Honestly? I’m not sure. That’s the truth I keep circling back to. It changed some things, for sure—but not always in ways that were obvious or life-defining. Sometimes, I came back from a trip exactly the same. And that used to frustrate me. I wanted transformation. I thought movement would lead to clarity, that crossing borders would magically sort out the chaos in my head.
Yes, I’ve picked up habits and perspectives. I learned how to compliment like an American—loud, direct, unapologetically kind. If your shoes are cute, I’ll tell you. I’ve also learned to move through unfamiliar places with quiet confidence, to eat alone without awkwardness, to ask for help when needed, even in the language they don't understand. Those skills became a soft armor in unfamiliar environments, and they’ve stayed with me.
But if I had to name a turning point, it would be after one particularly grueling trip to Dubai. I had just ended my first long, emotionally exhausting relationship. That week, I went out every single night. Not to party wildly, but to be around people—men mostly—who didn’t know me, who didn’t expect anything from me, who saw me only in that present moment. I was running from the pain, but also, I was learning how to sit with myself in it. Travel gave me the space to feel without explanation.
Travel didn’t necessarily change my values—but it did test them. It showed me what I clung to, what I could let go of. It sharpened my boundaries. I used to think relationships had to look a certain way. But after meeting people from different cultures, some with lives that looked nothing like mine, I realized that love and success and home could be redefined. Slowly, I began to release the version of myself I thought I had to be.
The Fading of Moments
One of the strangest things about constant travel is how much you forget. Unless I documented a moment—through photos, videos, or writing—it usually fades. I rarely remember the specifics: what the sky looked like in Granada, how the Haloumi in Athens tasted, the way a city smelled in the morning.
That doesn’t mean those memories weren’t real. They were. But over time, without sensory anchors, they blend into each other. I wish I had captured more: not just visuals, but thoughts, moods, fleeting emotions. I wish I had recorded myself talking about how I felt in the moment, even if it was just a quick voice note.
I’m learning now that documentation isn’t vanity—it’s memory insurance. Looking back at an old picture sometimes jolts me with a long-forgotten feeling. A snapshot at a train station. A video of me laughing over something I no longer remember. These fragments are proof that I lived those days fully, even if I can’t always recall the details.
There’s a kind of grief in forgetting. But there’s also a quiet acceptance. Not every experience needs to be preserved in high definition. Some just leave a trace of who you were at the time—and that’s enough.
Should You Travel Like I Did?
I think about this often. Would I tell someone younger to travel the way I did? The short answer is: yes, with some terms & conditions.
Travel can stretch you, humble you, surprise you. It can show you how small your world is and how big your heart can get. But it’s not a cure-all. It won’t fix your heartbreak. It won’t give you purpose. It won’t make you more interesting than you already are. It’s an experience, not a solution.
If I could talk to my younger self, I’d say: take more risks. Go to more places. Say yes to the diving lesson and go to most of diving spots in Derawan, Sulawesi, and Nusa Tenggara! Say yes to that detour. Because now, married and more settled, those spontaneous leaps take a bit more effort. My husband is loving—but also a bit protective, so I don’t always get to move as freely as I used to.
Romanticize travel? Sure. Romanticize solo adventures, remote work, the passport full of stamps. But don’t let it become your only story. You’re allowed to love staying home too. You’re allowed to be a whole person without crossing a single border.
The Costs You Don’t Post
People talk about the benefits of travel, but not enough about the cost—emotional, physical, relational. Traveling frequently means disrupted sleep, neglected routines, impulsive spending!, and hard conversations with loved ones.
Being in a relationship while traveling is its own challenge. Unless your partner is extremely tolerant or equally mobile, resentment can build. You miss birthdays, anniversaries, slow Sunday mornings. Sometimes you come home with jet lag instead of souvenirs.
Long-haul economy flights are brutal. There’s no glamour in 14 hours of cramped seating, dry air, and aching joints. I’ve done enough of those to know that I’ll always pay extra now for more comfort—because comfort is no longer a luxury, it’s a necessity.
My favorite airline experiences? Singapore Airlines, Cathay Pacific, Turkish Airlines. The worst? Let’s just say any flight with a lion logo tests my patience. Every traveler has their limits, and I’ve learned mine the hard way.
And What Is Home, Anyway?
After all the cities, beds, and checkouts, my definition of home hasn’t changed much. If anything, it’s gotten clearer. Home is not a place—it’s a feeling. It’s the soft landing, the person who knows your rhythms, the kitchen where you can cook without checking Google Maps.
For me, home is my husband. It’s not about where we are, but how we are. He’s the calm after the chaos, the routine after the road. Even when he’s asking double sheet for our bed in new hotel room or double-checking every door lock, he’s my anchor.
Still, I think there’s value in missing home. When you’re far away, you appreciate the little things more: the way sunlight hits your own window, the smell of your bedsheets, the sound of your city’s rain. Travel gave me the gift of contrast. It showed me what I already had.
And maybe that’s the biggest takeaway. Travel didn’t change who I am—but it reminded me who I’ve always been.
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