When I tell people that I’m going to live in South Korea for five months, I usually get two types of reactions.
The “Oh, how amazing that you’re doing that!” traveler, who has themselves spent half a year traveling in Asia or some other exotic part of the world. Or the “Brave, but I would never do that” skeptic, who often then asks whether I wouldn’t rather spend a month in Spain.
I can enjoy both reactions. They show that there are people who completely understand how amazing it is to embark on such an adventure, and there are people who much prefer to stay at home. The reactions fuel my excitement—secretly, even the second reaction fuels it more, because who wants to do what everyone else does?
And these two sides actually exist in my own system. The adventurer in me wants to explore, discover new cultures, learn a foreign language, and seek out the unknown. But the homebody in me much prefers to stay in my familiar environment, where I know exactly what to expect and what I can count on.
That’s why I enjoy giving attention to both sides.
Since I was fifteen, I’ve been saying that I want to do an internship abroad, which later became a wish to study or even live abroad.
But dreaming is not the same as living.
Finding an internship was difficult, studying was far too expensive, and working abroad isn’t allowed everywhere. Plenty of reasons not to do it, so for years I kept postponing my desire.
It wasn’t until I was 28 that I dared to listen again. I heard a friend excitedly announce that she had decided to travel through Australia and New Zealand for a few months. Immediately, excitement and jealousy started wrestling with each other in my head.
Of course, I responded with enthusiasm, but the jealousy in me wondered:
Why her and not me?
Fortunately, this happened during a block of the NLP Master Practitioner (a personal development program), and I took the time to explore my jealousy with curiosity.
Deep down, of course, I knew very well that there was nothing I wanted more than to go on a trip myself. I was jealous of her courage to actually do it.
I already knew what I wanted, of course, but all those years I had blamed the circumstances, never questioning my own courage. The truth was, I didn’t dare.
That day, a little flame was kindled in my subconscious.
But before I knew it, all the reasons not to listen to that flame came up. I’m too old to travel now, what about my apartment? My job? Where will I get the money? Where do I even want to go? How will I figure all this out?
All of these questions are valid reasons to choose the safe path, the path I know so well.
Adventure is impractical and, moreover, financially extremely unwise. I am also at the age when I’m supposed to meet a man via Tinder who promises to treat me well, after which we buy a house together—a typical family home in an idyllic new residential area with childcare and an elementary school nearby.
But the little flame did not go out; it grew.
And the list of “why I shouldn’t do this” slowly became “but what if I do?”
Exactly one month later, I booked my trip to South Korea. Five months of studying in a country I have never been to and whose language I do not speak. But my happiness knew no bounds.
For me, booking the trip was a victory.
A “take that” to all the reasons that wanted to hold me back. A “see, I told you so” to the part of me that said I wouldn’t dare, and essentially a big middle finger to the anxiety disorder that had kept me trapped in my room for a year.
Will I soon be 30, without a job and without a home, but with a one-way ticket to South Korea? Yes. Yes, that’s true. And I couldn’t care less. Life is hard enough if we do what is expected of us, so why should I shortchange my own desires?
And how will it be there? I hope fun! That’s what I’m assuming, actually. But even if it turns out to be the worst five months of my life, I will still be the happiest person I’ve ever been.
Because I listened to my deepest desires instead of my fears.
And for me, that equals truly living.