Home Sweet Home: Why I Don't Have Wanderlust And I'm Okay With That

by Gigi Engle

I’ve seen my fair share of far-off places. I’ve ridden bikes in Paris, I’ve been scared to death on the London Eye, and I’ve climbed to the top of the Sagrada Familia in Barcelona.

I've traveled. I've seen other parts of the world. But truth be told, I've never really liked it. I don’t like to go anywhere outside of America for more than 10 days.

The only way I’m going to another country again is on an all-expenses-paid, five-star luxury vacation to some fabulous beach. Otherwise, nah.

I once spent four weeks in Switzerland climbing the Alps and attempting to speak French. It would have been a dream for anyone else -- a truly magnificent experience. But not for me. I was f*cking miserable.

I missed my American foods. I missed my car. I missed everyone speaking my language. I missed the understanding and camaraderie of the places and people I knew.

I wanted to go home and stay there.

I know how bougie and horrible that sounds. Trust me, I feel bad enough. I literally hate traveling. I love America. I’m cool with America. I don’t want to go anywhere else.

I’ve traveled because I felt that it was what I was SUPPOSED to do. That’s what you’re supposed to want, right? You should want to see the world.

You should want to learn about new cultures. You should want to smash your way out of your comfort zone with carefree, reckless abandon.

But I stopped traveling when I realized I was doing it only to fit in with everyone else. I was trying to conjure a wanderlust that was inauthentic and manufactured. It was hollow, and it was fake.

I’m down for a week-long trip to another country. But that’s it. I don’t want to backpack around the world. I don’t want to spend a year in Thailand.

I see all of these people “having the times of their lives” traveling the world. People who aren't traveling are constantly complaining about their wanderlust.

It gives me anxiety. I don’t have wanderlust. I just want to stay right here in America.

I’m so f*cking sick of apologizing for not wanting to travel. I’m so tired of having people look at me like I’m crazy and tell me that I’m boring for not wanting to go out and see the damn world.

I don’t make you feel like a dick about wanting to backpack in bumblef*ck nowhere for three months at a time.

I don't care if you document your stupid trip with way too many Instagrams on boats-that-are-clearly-docks (which you didn't even go on) and beautiful villas where you didn't stay. So, why don’t you stop judging me for wanting to enjoy the comfort of my own home?

I don’t have f*cking wanderlust, and you need to STFU about it.

I like my comfort zone.

I dig my comfort zone. I made it. I carefully and meticulously constructed my life.  I chose my people, my city, my career and my activities.

I am perfectly happy staying right here in the bubble. The bubble is comforting. The bubble makes me feel safe AND stimulated.

I don’t need to pack my bags and spend one grand on a plane ticket in order to "shake things up." I’m not bored. I’m not sad.

I’m content, and I see no reason to disturb my calm and lovely seas. If you want to go to Berlin, Amsterdam or China, go for it. Seriously, you do you. Just don’t make me feel bad for spending my money on a new pair of shoes instead of a trip to some other country.

I don’t look at travel porn; that’s lame AF.

I’m not sitting over at my desk, lusting over pictures of Belizean beaches or backpacking trips across Europe. I’m not unsatisfied with my life, and I’m not jealous of other people’s lives.

Travel porn doesn’t excite me. Real porn excites me. I’d rather take a three-day weekend than a three-month trip around the world.

Take all the pictures you want, guys. Just know that I’m not going to be the one clicking through them.

I get homesick if I’m somewhere else for more than five days.

When I spent time abroad, all I wanted to do was go home. Sure, it was a good experience to see other places, and I understand the value of travel. But I’m not itching to do it again.

I get dreadfully homesick if I go anywhere else for more than five or six days. All I want to do is be able to get my normal Diet Coke and cereal and use American money.

Homesickness taints these “treasured” experiences I’m supposed to be having. It makes me feel like they're being wasted on me. Travel is more exhausting than exciting.

Yes, I feel a little bad about not sharing in my friends' insatiable wanderlust. But I don't feel that bad. I’m going to do me -- and I’m finished apologizing for it.