Once You Choose Freedom, You Begin Letting Go
I initially believed that making the decision would be the most challenging part of my journey. Indeed, it was difficult. The moment one truly decides to abandon a conventional life and embrace a nomadic existence not merely fantasizing, researching, or observing others, but genuinely committing carries an indescribable weight for those who haven't experienced it firsthand.
However, standing in my apartment nine years ago, surrounded by the tangible remnants of a life I had largely lived on autopilot, I realized that the decision was merely the beginning.
What followed was the profound process of letting go.
I would come to understand that letting go is not a singular event but an ongoing process, extending far beyond simply decluttering a storage unit.
When contemplating the act of letting go associated with a nomadic lifestyle, most people envision the release of physical possessions: furniture, dishes, books, and extra vehicles. It encompasses the collection of functional, sentimental, and decorative items that fill a home, which, upon departure, necessitate a decision-making matrix: keep, donate, sell, or trash.
I underwent this process, as every nomad does, and I won't deny the grief involved. While parting with the second set of dining chairs was easy, some items caused a pang of sadness: the family coffee table, a shelf of books I vowed to revisit, and the comfortable, well-lit corner of a life that, despite not bringing happiness, offered familiarity. The familiar, even if not ideal, can be painful to leave behind.
However, I soon discovered that the physical possessions were the easiest to release, representing only the superficial layer of a much deeper excavation.
The second layer proved more challenging to
identify. It took time for me to even recognize its presence. The initial focus on logistics researching vehicles, calculating finances, and learning new terminology like "shore power," "freshwater tank," and "boondocking" can obscure the underlying, more profound process. Eventually, however, it surfaces. A nomadic life doesn't merely change one's address; it transforms one's role.
For twenty-one years, I served as a submariner. Before that, I was a son, a student, and a member of specific communities with particular expectations. Upon retirement, I became a veteran, a retiree, navigating the sudden loss of my most defining institutional
identity. After the Navy, I constructed a new life, largely from the outside in, as most people do. I found a residence, established routines, and filled my time with activities that resembled a life.
Yet, when I chose to go nomadic, I had to confront a question I had long avoided: "Who am I when I am not playing a predefined role?"
This question is not pondered in a storage unit. It arises on the open road at two in the morning when the darkness and quiet allow the mind to wander into uncharted territory. The significant act of letting go isn't about furniture; it's about shedding identity armorthe narrative you've constructed for yourself and others about who you are and what you do. It's about releasing the version of yourself tailored to the life you're leaving, a version that doesn't automatically fit the life you're embracing. This aspect, no one mentions in pre-trip planning forums.
Through my observations of myself and the nomadic community over nearly a decade, I've noticed a surprising amount of invisible weight that people carry into a nomadic life.
This includes the need for approval from those who don't comprehend their choice, the habit of justifying their decisions to anyone who asks, repeatedly explaining why this lifestyle is sensible, responsible, and not merely an escape. They also carry an internal critic that whispers, "You're being irresponsible," "This is selfish," or "You'll regret this" a voice that often sounds like wisdom but is usually rooted in fear.
Comparison is another burden: comparing themselves to those they left behind who still follow conventional paths, to online nomads who appear to have everything figured out, or to an idealized version of themselves who navigates this lifestyle with more grace and better aesthetics. They also cling to the need to be productive in familiar ways, even when that framework no longer applies. This leads to guilt during unstructured time and discomfort when unable to answer "What do you do?" in a socially acceptable manner.
Furthermore, they carry the expectation that freedom should feel light, easy, and expansive, leading to disappointment when it sometimes manifests as confusion, grief, or a sense of being anchorless. All of these represent facets of letting go, a gradual, piece-by-piece process that does not conclude in the first month.
I want to be transparent about this, as nomadic content can sometimes present an idealized version of this experience. Letting go is not a singular event, a dramatic moment when a storage unit closes, you drive away, music swells, and you instantly feel free. While some days may feel like that, and those moments are genuinely real and deserving of celebration, other days, letting go looks like waking up in a beautiful location and feeling an inexplicable sadness. It involves conversing with someone from your old life and realizing the connection no longer fits as it once did. It means grappling with self-doubt about your choices, not because they were wrong, but because the human brain resists releasing the familiar. Letting go is not a moment; it is a posture.
It is the continuous practice of loosening your grip on possessions, roles, expectations, and the need to have everything figured out to feel successful. It involves recognizing when you're holding on too tightly and questioning what you're truly trying to protect.
Nine years into this journey, I continue this practice. The layers evolve, and the attachments become more subtle, but the practice itself never ends. It simply becomes easier, and in the best moments, it feels lighter.
I want to conclude with this, as I don't wish to portray this journey as solely difficult. When you truly let go not just the physical items in a storage unit, but the deeper aspects, the identity armor, and the invisible weight you discover a kind of spaciousness that is genuinely challenging to articulate. It's not necessarily happiness, nor the constant joy often implied by nomadic content. It's something quieter: clarity. It's the profound sense that you are living a life you actively chose, not one that merely happened to you. Your daily existence its rhythms, priorities, and pace reflects an authentic version of who you are, rather than who you were expected to be.
Nine years ago, when I began letting go, I didn't know what I was searching for. I only knew I was carrying too much, and not just in my storage unit, but this is what I've found: the more you release, the more clearly you can perceive what was inherently yours all along. This realization is worth whatever the process demands.
If this resonates with you, please share it with someone navigating their own process of letting go. Additionally, consider subscribing to Nomadic By Nature on Substack for weekly posts, podcast episodes, notes, and a community of individuals genuinely embracing this lifestyle.
