Moving Without Going Anywhere
I took a final glimpse at my apartment, which never felt quite home. I’d done my best to keep it minimalistic—maybe a part of me knew I wasn’t going to live there for long.
Empty walls, empty rooms. I felt empty too. What is this feeling? Why does leaving behind a two-bedroom apartment just outside Amsterdam feel so heavy?
I never stopped to reflect that Jan Wolkerslaan 485 was my place. My first solo place. No girlfriend, no parents, no flatmates. The place where I learned how to live alone. How to be alone. How to feel happy on my own.
The plan was simple: strip life down to a backpack, quit my job, and wander through Asia until my savings—or the lack of them—forced me to stop.
Emptying my pockets was never the goal. There’s a certain psychological safety in knowing my finances depend solely on me, and I take pride in not being a burden to anyone else. To soften the sting of watching my bank account shrink for the first time in my life, I set a budget. Whether it lasts me one month or ten years, I haven’t decided yet—that’s something I plan to figure out along the way.
That was the plan until the universe, as always, had other ideas. Before I even got on the plane, I met my girlfriend. Unexpected, unplanned—and now, I’m moving in with her. In three weeks, I’ll still be flying to Vietnam, but my story looks different now. I’m chasing two dreams: a long vacation in Asia and a new life with her.
Getting here has been messy. I gave away, sold, or tossed most of my clothes, books, and the countless little objects that don’t fit neatly into any reasonable category—just “things” piling up over time. A mountain of cables: USB to USB mini, USB-C to lightning, black, white, braided, short, long. Do I need this? Have I ever needed this?
The pile of “what if I need this” objects had quietly taken over my life, each item claiming space not just in my apartment but in my mind.
Every decision was a battle. Keep or sell? Throw or give? If sell, how much? If give, to whom? Each answer opened more questions, and the process dragged on like an endless maze.
The worst were the big-ticket items, like my bed. Do I sell it now and sleep on the floor, or cling to the comfort of a soft mattress a little longer, knowing I’ll have to deal with it later? Either way, it felt like losing. The pain was unavoidable: the effort of dealing with it now or the stress of leaving it undone.
Amazon therapy turned out to be more expensive than I’d thought, and not just in money. Every gadget, every T-shirt, every pen came with a hidden cost—the effort to keep it, store it, and take care of it. Tyler Durden’s words from Fight Club echoed in my mind: “The things you own end up owning you.”
After weeks of dragging myself through this, I felt like an iPhone on 2% battery, every non-essential process in my brain shutting down. Minimal brightness, no Bluetooth, airplane mode on. Only trying to make it through.
Three weeks from now, I’ll be lying on a sunbed in Vietnam, with nothing but time stretching out in front of me. No clocks, no schedules, no responsibilities. Is it Monday or Thursday? I don’t know, and I hope I won’t care.
Decision fatigue.
Each choice sapped my energy. The mental toll of moving is so much worse than the physical effort. It isn’t just packing up your stuff; it’s confronting the accumulation of a life you didn’t even realize you were building.
When it was finally over, I sat under the shower for ten minutes, letting the hot water carry away every emotion I’d ever felt. Memories from the past year played out in my mind like a highlight reel—the highs, the lows, the in-betweens I hadn’t noticed my mind recording.
That empty apartment holds all of them now, and it’s time to let them go.
This too shall pass.
It already had.