What 10+ Years of Digital Nomad Life Taught Me About Actually Living

Two nights ago, I was sipping espresso on the balcony of my little villa in Canggu, Bali, watching the rice paddies glow gold in the late afternoon light.

The internet was humming at a solid 100 Mbps—rare luxury after that nightmare month in a spotty Airbnb in Chiang Mai back in 2018.

I’ve been living this remote work and digital nomad life for over twelve years now, freelancing as a marketing consultant for tech startups mostly, hopping from one beautiful chaos to another.

My laptop was open to Slack, where Alex from the San Francisco team was pinging me about a campaign deadline. “Dude, where are you today? Surfboards in the background again?” he typed with a laughing emoji.

I grinned, snapped a quick photo of my setup—MacBook on a bamboo table, frangipani flowers scattered like confetti, the distant crash of waves—and sent it back. “Living the dream, man. You still stuck in traffic on the 101?”

He replied instantly: “Jealous. One day I’ll join you nomads.”

I almost laughed out loud. If only he knew the full story—the visa runs at 3 a.m., the time my flight got canceled in Medellín, and I lost a $5,000 client because Wi-Fi died mid-pitch, the sheer exhaustion of saying goodbye to people you actually start to love.

But yesterday morning, everything shifted.

I woke up to a message from Lena, a friend I’d met in a coworking space in Lisbon three years ago. She’s a graphic designer, always bouncing between Portugal and Thailand. Her text was short: “Hey, I’m in Bali for a month. Coffee today? Need to talk. Important.”

We met at this tiny warung near Echo Beach—wooden benches, roosters strutting around like they own the place, the smell of nasi goreng frying in the background. Lena looked different. Tired, but glowing in that way people do when something big is brewing.

After the first sip of kopi tubruk, she leaned in.

“I’m done with the full-time nomad thing,” she said quietly. “I met someone in Ubud. He’s local, runs a surf school. We’re talking about settling here—maybe opening a small creative studio together. No more visa roulette, no more packing every three months.”

I stared at her. “Wait. You’re… stopping? After all this?”

She nodded, eyes shining. “Yeah. I thought freedom meant never stopping. But lately I’ve been lonely in the best sunsets. I want roots, you know? A place that knows my coffee order.”

We talked for hours. I told her about my own close calls—how in 2020 I almost burned out in Tbilisi because I chased every new city instead of building real routines.

How I learned the hard way that digital nomad life isn’t an endless vacation; it’s work with better views, but the same inbox stress. How I once dated a girl in Bangkok who ghosted me after I left for Da Nang, because “long-distance with someone who’s never really there” hurt too much.

“So what about you?” Lena asked finally. “Twelve years in. Any thoughts of slowing down?”

I shrugged, watching a scooter zip by with a surfboard strapped to the back. “Sometimes. But I still love the rush—the random deep convos in coworking spaces, waking up to new birdsong, figuring out how to close a deal while a monkey steals your banana in Ubud.”

She smiled. “Fair. But promise me one thing—if you ever feel that pull toward something more grounded, don’t ignore it like I almost did.”

We hugged goodbye, and I walked back to my villa feeling strangely lighter. That night I opened my calendar and—for the first time in years—blocked off three months in Bali. No new flights booked. Just me, the same desk, the same waves.

Then came the twist.

This morning, my phone buzzed at 7 a.m. It was an email from my biggest client, the one who’s kept me afloat since 2019.

Subject: “Big news— we’re going fully remote HQ in Bali. Want to lead the APAC team? Full relocation package. Stay as long as you want.”

I read it twice, heart pounding. The universe has a sick sense of humor.

I laughed out loud, alone on the balcony with my cold coffee. Twelve years of dodging roots, and now they’re handing me a permanent spot in paradise?

I texted Lena: “Guess who just got offered a reason to stay put?”

She replied instantly: “Told you. The road has a funny way of circling back when you’re ready.”

So here I am, still a digital nomad at heart, but maybe—finally—ready to call one place home. The rice paddies are still golden, the Wi-Fi is still strong, and for once, the next chapter doesn’t require a suitcase.

Who knows? Maybe this remote work adventure just grew a pair of roots. And honestly? It feels pretty damn good.