“Where are you off to now?” they ask, eyebrows raised and smiles that don’t always reach their eyes…. “Can’t you just settle down and stay home?”

I believe it’s not meant to wound, but it lingers—an undercurrent of judgment wrapped in curiosity, yet I have learned not to bristle.

Instead, I breathe and answer: “I have a vagabond soul.”

It’s not because I’m running from something but because I’m running toward something—toward understanding, toward meaning, and toward the golden thread that connects all things when we’re willing to look closer. My next journey, in two weeks, takes me to New Zealand and Tasmania—not for the postcard views and wines (those call me too!)—but for what they might teach me about presence, reverence, and what it means to belong without possessing.

Some people search for a home. I search for truth, the kind that exists between places, roles, what is handed down, and what feels sacred to me. I am a vagabond of both the road and the soul, not because I am unhappy, but because I am deeply, dangerously curious.

As a child, I would question everything. When adults gave me answers, they seldom made sense. I wanted more—more depth, more honesty, more evidence. But often, they couldn’t provide it. They’d say, “Don’t worry about it,” or “That’s just the way it is.” That never satisfied me. I wasn’t trying to be difficult. I just wanted to understand.

In high school, I remember challenging my religion teacher: “Why do I need to believe this? Why does this version of the truth matter more than my experience of it?” Blind faith never came naturally to me. I wanted to feel truth in my body, to witness it for myself, not adopt it because someone told me to. That instinct, to experience rather than assume, is what still drives me to travel, to seek, to go where others don’t.

People often speak with conviction about places they’ve never been, cultures they’ve never touched, lives they’ve never lived. They absorb secondhand beliefs and make them their truth. That’s never made sense to me. I’d rather stand on the soil, hear the language, and feel the heartbeat of a place for myself before drawing conclusions. That’s how I make sense of the world by being in it, fully.

My unrest is not rooted in lack. It’s rooted in longing, an ache to experience life honestly, to peel back the polished surface and press my palms to the raw, breathing core of things. I’ve never been content to inherit a blueprint. I want to draw my own map.

Of course, vagabonding, both spiritual and physical, comes at a cost. I’ve felt the weight of other people’s confusion, their need to label or fix me. But I’ve also felt profound freedom. I’ve left relationships that didn’t honor who I was becoming. I’ve released timelines and expectations that weren’t mine. I’ve made space for wonder.

Living on my own terms hasn’t always been easy, but it has always been true. I trust the rhythm of my becoming. I struggle to settle because I’ve made a pact with authenticity: to observe, to challenge, to live awake and never land in mediocrity.

So no, I am not escaping. I am arriving—again and again—in every unfamiliar place that offers me a mirror. New Zealand and Tasmania are next on the list of soul-stretching teachers. I am a vagabond not only of roads but of soul, a restless heart with a compass tuned to truth, tenderness, and the untamed. I do not seek a final destination. I strive to stay present. And if that means wandering for the rest of my days, then so be it.

The journey itself has become my home.