The Geography of Coming Home
There’s something about early mornings around the campfire that strips away everything unnecessary. The camp is still quiet, the coffee is strong, and you have space to think without anyone needing anything from you. It’s in these moments, when tiredness meets solitude, that awareness tends to creep in.
I’ve been sitting with a slow realization over these past two weeks in Kenya. Not a dramatic revelation or a moment of clarity, but something quieter. The kind of understanding that builds gradually, like light filling the sky before you notice dawn has arrived.
You can be getting closer to something and further from something at the same time. The geography of missing taught me about spaces where I should have been but wasn’t. The tyranny of either-or showed me how we complicate choices by forcing them into false categories. The geography of joy reminded me that wonder and difficulty can occupy the same coordinates.
This trip has been a checkpoint in that journey. Not a turning point, but a place to pause and take stock of how far I’ve traveled and where the path is leading.
When you’re tired in the right way – not depleted, but honestly worn from meaningful, valuable work – you start feeling things differently. The barriers between what you think you should feel and what you actually feel begin to dissolve. You stop performing emotions and start experiencing them.
There was an evening mid-week when the entire group was engaging and laughing and talking around the dinner table. Truly amazing people sharing stories that made the night feel electric with connection. I sat back and watched this scene I’d helped create, feeling proud of what I’d been able to build for them. Then something else hit me: I want that for myself.
Not as the facilitator, not as the guide watching from the edge of the circle, but as someone fully inside their own life. The laughter and joy these people were sharing – that’s what I’ve been missing while I’ve been so focused on creating it for others.
It wasn’t jealousy. Not at all. It was recognition. I’ve become so skilled at orchestrating other people’s experiences that I’ve forgotten how to have my own.
I’ve realized something important: you’ve been pretending that if something is meaningful, it shouldn’t feel heavy. That’s bullshit. The most beautiful things in life often cost the most to carry. There’s nothing wrong with admitting that meaningful work can exhaust you, that following your passion can drain you, that living your purpose can sometimes feel like punishment.
The awareness that’s been building isn’t about what’s wrong with my current reality. It’s about recognizing that I’ve been using beautiful words like “transition” and “geographic awareness” when the truth is simpler: I’m tired of living someone else’s definition of success. I’ve been calling it evolution when really I’ve been stalling.
People ask what’s next, and I’m learning to be comfortable with not having a complete answer while still being intentional about the direction. But you’re probably sitting in your own version of this moment right now, aren’t you? Knowing something needs to change but calling it “considering options” instead of admitting you’re scared. Using careful language to avoid the simple truth that you’re ready for something different but terrified of what that might cost.
The five weeks I have at home before Svalbard feel significant. Not as an escape, but as an opportunity to create the space this transition requires.
Tomorrow I’m stepping away from social media completely until I head to the Arctic. Not because the platform is evil, but because some journeys require your full attention. Some work happens best without an audience.
This isn’t about running from anything. It’s about walking toward something with the kind of presence that deep work requires. It’s about giving this phase of growth the respect it deserves, even when that means disappointing people who expect you to stay the same forever.
The cost of awareness is higher than anyone tells you. You can’t unknow what you know. You can’t unfeel what you’ve felt. You can’t go back to sleepwalking through choices once you’ve woken up to what those choices actually cost.
There’s something powerful about choosing your own rhythm instead of letting external demands set the pace. About recognizing that tiredness can be wisdom, that awareness can be gift, that admitting you need space is strength, not weakness.
The geography of coming home isn’t just about returning to a physical place. It’s about coming back to yourself with new understanding. About integrating who you were with who you’re becoming. About making peace with the fact that growth often feels like traveling in multiple directions at once.
I’m bringing back more than memories from this trip. I’m carrying new questions, deeper clarity about what matters, and the kind of tired satisfaction that comes from doing meaningful work while staying present for it. I’m also carrying the image of that laughing group around the dinner table, and the knowledge that I want to be inside that circle, not just creating it.
The early morning campfire conversations with myself have been worth every quiet, chilly minute. They’ve reminded me that the most important discoveries happen in quiet moments when you’re honest enough to listen to what you already know but haven’t been ready to hear.
Change doesn’t have to be dramatic to be profound. Sometimes it’s as simple as recognizing that you’re ready for what comes next, even when you don’t know exactly what that is.
The geography of coming home is really about coming home to yourself. To your own pace, your own priorities, your own definition of what a meaningful life looks like. To your own seat around the table instead of always tending everyone else’s.
Five weeks ahead to honor this transition. Then back to the work, but carrying everything I’ve learned about the art of paying attention to what matters most.
This completes the geography series - missing, joy, and coming home. I’ve mapped the territory. Next week, when the newsletter returns, we shift gears completely. From philosophical exploration to focused execution. From understanding the landscape to building on it. The next phase is about forward planning, discipline, and chasing goals and actions that will actually make a difference.
Some geographies can only be explored when you’re ready to be honest about where you actually are and where you actually want to go.
The hardest part isn’t making the change.
It’s admitting you should have made it years ago.