Yesterday I was driving with my host, listening to her speak about life.

The loans.

The bills.

The endless responsibility.

The effort it takes to hold together land, animals, buildings and a life that has roots.

And as she spoke, I found myself reflecting on the strange path I have walked.

Because in many ways, I have the opposite problem.

I am free.

I can pack my bags whenever.

I can follow the call when my heart says “go.”

I am not tied to a mortgage, a career ladder, a village expectation, or a life that no longer fits.

But I also do not have a home.

Very few belongings.

No land waiting for me in the morning.

No certainty about where I will be six months from now. And if I am honest, I would still choose this path.

Not because it is easier.

Not because it is better.

But because I have never been able to live any other way. I have tried to imagine myself living the normal story.

Working year after year for money.

Taking loans.

Building security.

Settling because it is time to settle.

But something in me has always refused.

Not because I don’t long for famil, for home and especially for land to care for and a place to belong.

I do.

Deeply.

But my way home seems to be different. My feet burn when I stay somewhere that is no longer true. My heart keeps calling me onward even when my mind would prefer certainty.

And so I walk.

Sometimes joyfully.

Sometimes reluctantly.

Often with more questions than answers.

What I have noticed over the years is that people often look at my life and see freedom.

The travels.

The wild places.

The unexpected adventures.

The beautiful photographs.

And sometimes they tell me they are jealous.

What they do not see are the departures.

The grief.

The uncertainty.

The moments of sitting alone wondering where I belong.

Just as I sometimes look at people with homes, families, gardens and rooted lives and imagine a certainty that may not actually exist.

Because the longer I live, the more I see that every path carries both a gift and a cost.

The rooted life carries belonging, continuity and depth. It also carries responsibility, limitation and sacrifice.

The wandering life carries freedom, possibility and discovery. It also carries uncertainty, loneliness and endless letting go.

We see the fruit of other people’s choices.

Rarely the price.

And perhaps this is why comparison is such a poor guide. Because life is not asking us to live someone else’s path. It is asking us to become honest about our own.

For now, my path still seems to be asking me to trust.

To follow.

To keep walking when the map disappears.

And while I do not yet have the home I have been searching for, I have begun to suspect that every step has been teaching me how to recognize it when it finally appears.