Who Moved My Cheese?
How do you write about the transition from adventurous traveler to urban dweller? What do you say about the bouts of sadness and depression, the feeling of a loss of purpose, the way time just disappears without any sense of productivity? How do you describe the intense missing of the way you used to feel so alive on a daily basis?
After tackling great heights and fears, we find ourselves flailing a bit. The irony of our very-unstructured trip is that we had a definite set of daily routines (not to mention a great big umbrella of a goal that propelled us forward). These days, as we effectively start over, routine is hard to find. And we have bumbled around a lot, trying to reconcile this stationary chapter of our lives with our self-identification as travelers.
I remember watching the TV show “China Beach” when I was younger. Nothing stands out to me now about the series, except for the final episode when they all leave the war and go home. I felt an immense sadness for the characters then, and now I feel like I kind of understand that experience. What do you do next, after the end of something completely life-changing? It has given me new respect for the ways in which Peace Corps volunteers come back and re-integrate (Lynn, if you’re reading, I’m sending long-distance hugs as you get re-acquainted with the US). These kinds of big transitions are hard.
When we were nearing Boston, and coming to the end of our riding time, Russ would often lament the end of the trip. I put on my optimist hat and tried to spin it as a much-needed break. And, truthfully, I needed to rest, to sleep, to take some time away from the constant movement. But you can’t really mourn the end of a part of your life experience and smile at the same time. And so I feel like I’ve been in a bit of a daze for the past several weeks. Time has passed, but I can’t really remember what I’ve done. I’ve made and sent out orders, but I’d have to look through my records to know what all I did. Like novocaine wearing off after a dentist visit, the sting of the end of the trip is hitting me hard now that I’m waking up from my fog.
And fog is really the only way I can describe it. Everything around you seems familiar and you know you should know how to interact with it all. But the edges are dulled, because it’s hard to comprehend that this is who you are now.
In the excitement of leaving on a grand adventure, you never think about what it will be like at the end. Which is probably good, because if you knew how sad and out-of-sorts you would feel, you might never experience the grand adventures that life has to offer. Would I give up all that we’ve done and seen, so that I didn’t have to deal with these very difficult days and weeks? No, not at all. I would say that I wish I had been better prepared for this crash and burn feeling, but how do you prepare? No, I think we just have to recognize that big life transitions are really difficult, and mourning the end doesn’t disrespect the experience.
And, then, somehow, we need to make sure to not entirely lose that part of ourselves that we found out on the road. The other day, as I was riding down a street that I’ve ridden many times since we’ve been in town, I noticed a whole block that I hadn’t seen before. A big rusted metal building, covered in graffiti, with a vacant lot next to it, entirely covered in weeds. This is not the sort of place that just fades into the background. Except that I had stopped seeing with my traveler’s eyes. I disappeared into the sadness, instead of finding a way to remain a traveler-at-heart. And maybe that’s the key… being gentle with yourself and looking at your new surroundings with the same eyes you had before the transition… until one day when you realize you’ve just magically adapted.
Note: We haven’t written anything about Portland, because it’s not fair to Portland to judge it from this strange place of fuzziness and sadness. But we will, soon, we promise.
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I feel for you. I have this pesky, but incredibly fortunate habit of making solo trips to faraway parts of the world, myself, and no matter how grueling or dangerous those trips can be, the readjustment to a previous pace and priorities is always the hardest part.
I know this feeling you’re describing. Time runs differently than it used to. Things seem much less alive than they were. You may have left for a year or more, but the thing that’s most shocking: how much things haven’t changed.
It’s a lonely, unexpected sort of transition, too, because it’s not a trauma anyone really mentions — nobody writes a novel about life after the journey. It’s an adjustment not many can identify with, and perhaps one they don’t want to hear about, (e.g., I hesitate to tell people how much I miss the austerity of living out of a single bag, for example. ).
I’ve been following your updates on Facebook for some time, partly to cheer you on, but frankly, partly to live vicariously through the little details. It’s therapy for a wanderlust that I can never seem to satisfy or ignore.
So I don’t know. I guess I’m just writing this to commiserate with you and to say this:
It’s normal to experience this feeling. Please do be gentle with yourself. Be patient. Take things slow. Traveler’s eyes are traveler’s eyes, and they add a certain magic to everything, but you’re just human. You will naturally adjust to this environment, but don’t sweat it. The resilience that allowed you to adjust to such a journey is the same resilience that will let you adjust and adapt to this place again. It’s a beautiful thing.
If I can make one bold, counterintuitive, ridiculous suggestion: savor this bittersweet moment.
It’s part of the trip, too.
What you’re feeling now is an immense thing. Listen to it. Write about it. But don’t let it overwhelm you.
It will tell you a lot of things about you, who you are, what you want, how you’ve grown.
And then, perhaps, let yourself feel some sense of accomplishment about what you just did. It’s incredible, really. You stepped outside of the norm, took some risks, followed your passion, and did it. You expanded your experience of the world, and in turn, your world will always be bigger. And thanks to your updates, ours too.
Good luck and thank you.
it is good to hear that “life” is indeed the same for us all.
see yall in Feb @ NAHBS!
I would like some perpetual magic adaptation, and a glass of milk, please.
Oh, I get this feeling that you’ve described here so well. I am still trying to figure out how the only passport I have is expired and I now pay a mortgage (something about having three kids, I suspect).
Reading this reminded me of long lost emotions that surfaced when I returned from my exchange year in Germany. Thank you for the slow and heart-felt reminder that culture shock occurs even when we return to our native culture. I had completely forgotten about it (which is a good sign too! The pain recedes), but it’s always good to remember.
Cheers,
Rachel
http://againstthegrind.com
I was on a 30 day canoe trip up in northern Canada after my sophomore year of high school, while not as long as your trip it was in immersion in a completely isolated environment with only the 4 other guys I was with. There is this small proverb from a book we all read that goes basically: A young man sees an old man carrying a heavy load up a mountain. The young man asks the old man what enlightenment is, so the old man stops, takes off his load and smiles. Then the young man asks what comes after enlightenment, and the old man shoulders his load once again and continues up the mountain. This story has stuck with me for 20 years and I feel is very relevant.
“Every beginning, after all, is nothing but a sequel, and the book of events is always open in the middle.”
— Wislawa Szymborska
With love,
~M. <3
Beautifully written, Laura. I hope you find comfort in knowing you and Russ have created a supportive biking community through your Website and Facebook page– your adventures have touched so many people. And I think taking the time to mourn the end of one adventure helps you get ready to plan your next one.
Happy holidays!
Jessica
Another thing to keep in mind is that you’ve come to us in Portland during the Big Dark, which is going to make the lows lower, regardless of what measures you take to fight it. We all wrestle with it– coffee, beer, and bikes help, but I, at least, am really just hanging in until the daylight comes back.
Perhaps the way to look at this period of time is that it’s yet another slow uphill climb in the wind of another larger journey. Just keep pedaling and breathing and know in your heart that it will all be okay.
I can only empathize in that I struggle with finding importance and significance in the workaday BS that surrounds me. When out on a brevet and taking in the world around, it is hard to envision just why the hell any of this crap I deal with on a daily basis matters one iota. People don’t have lions and bears chasing them anymore and so the TPS cover sheet becomes the new struggle for survival.
I don’t think any sane person magically adapts. They become numb, eventually comatose, and suddenly dead.
Don’t forget: It’s darker here than you’re used to. Not only are the days shorter, but they’re likely to be cloudy–and the sunny days are so cold and windy that I dread getting out on the bike.
So some of your down mood may be a lack of light. I know that leaving lights on is considered a waste of electricity, but we have the fancy low-energy bulbs, so I leave lots of lights on in the house, I think it helps, even if they’re not the fancy “full-spectrum” bulbs!
Thanks for speaking from your heart once again, Laura. These are the posts that I enjoy the most.
Hang in there .. the fog will lift and the sun will shine through once again.
As a bit of encouragement, I’m looking forward to hearing about Portland from your point of view.
You write about this very evocatively. I’ve followed your travels and appreciate how you depict this part of your adventures. (and it may not feel like it right now, this seems to be part of the adventure).
-JimD
It’s a fuzzy time for many people, as one year ends and we contemplate what a new one will bring. Sometimes it’s good to feel the sadness and loss, so you can contrast the happiness and excitement of finding a new sense of purpose. We wish you luck coming through it.
you know i’m usually not one for movie quotes, but the last line in “the life aquatic” came to mind after reading your post. i think it’s something that none of us should ever forget.
Feel exactly the same way…I was on the road for nine months and now back in the damp darkness of Vancouver, BC. Ugh. There’s no way to prepare for this other than plan the next escape. Maybe spend the next winter in Austin TX?
Thank you for the honesty. I am wishing you the best.
Laura, sitting here tonight reading your thoughts about a journey’s end brings me to a place I have been many times, but still a place I don’t like. It always seems cold, a bit lonely, and really uncomfortable.
My first encounter with this place was when I went away to school. Much to my surprise, I loved being away at school and experiencing a strange new life that was totally exciting and different from my very rural upbringing. When the quarter ended and I returned to my rural home, I was a lost puppy. How could the life I had grown to love have ended so quickly? Well, there were many re-runs of this one, as you might imagine.
I belive it is much the same with you right now. A very exciting part of your life has ended (only temporarily though) and you are back to a different routine that is somewhat dull in comparison. Even though you needed this break, it is a let down.
Unfortunately, I know the feeling right now too. Six weeks ago I was laid off from my employer of 13 years. At first it was a bit of relief, as I really needed some time off badly. But now, the uncertainty has set in. I’m back at “that place”. It’s just as uncomfortable now was the first time I visited many years ago. But, I know it will pass in due time. I believe it is necessary to ocassionally reset our baseline. It gives us a basis to judge our peaks against.
[…] Who Moved My Cheese? “…But you can’t really mourn the end of a part of your life experience and smile at the same time. And so I feel like I’ve been in a bit of a daze for the past several weeks. Time has passed, but I can’t really remember what I’ve done. I’ve made and sent out orders, but I’d have to look through my records to know what all I did. Like novocaine wearing off after a dentist visit, the sting of the end of the trip is hitting me hard now that I’m waking up from my fog. […]
I found your blog yesterday while researching the whole lifestyle design aspect of blogging and haven’t had much time to check it out but was sad to see y’all are done with your ride.
We hiked the AT from March to August this year and I can empathize. We’ve been off trail for nearly five months and we’re about to go out and get another dose of hiking for two months on the Florida Trail. But after that—it’s probably it for awhile. And the real world has it’s awesomeness, but it kinda sucks.
Ive done a goodly amount of cycle touring and found a similar circumstance in my professional life as an elementary school teacher. I’ve noticed that the end of each school year, the finality and closure, the giving up of a definite mission and goal is much the same as the end of a big tour. For a couple of weeks I feel a bit lost and move without aim. It’s been a good thing to feel it and understand the what and why. It is a letting go of a part of life. It organically happens that the professional focus is replaced with a new purpose. I wish you well in the transitory space and the next bit of your journey. It is a glorious place to be!
[…] recently found the quote below in a blog post called Who Moved My Cheese? from The Path Less Pedaled blog. In it, the author talks about coming to the end of their […]
[…] depression to hit me. After all, Laura from The Path Less Pedaled wrote a very moving piece about the depression she experienced post big adventure, and thus I spent our entire bike trip knowing that at the end I would be hit with a wall of […]