On the Run

Home » travel

Sometimes it gets to me, the sheer loneliness of always being away. It is an odd concoction of feelings, this feeling of deep gratitude for the opportunities I have been given and the deep guilt of feeling unsettled and bad. My eyes have been fed with unbelievable beauty that the world has to offer, I have tasted such a colourful array of flavours, learned the subtleties of many cultures. I have gotten to know certain places intimately and have been lucky enough to visit some cities over and over again to the point that I feel the same familiarity and ease as I do at home. Homesickness is a rare occurrence, however when it hits, it absolutely destroys. I am inconsolable for a few hours, as the tears run down my face and I silently sob. I do not care to hide my face because I am in a city that is not mine and the faces I am met with, I will never see again. 

I have trouble declining opportunities, no matter how tired or afraid I am, I never say no. Because, there is no worse feeling to me than never knowing what could be. So I’ll hop on those planes, my knees may ache on the crammed economy seat and I maybe have landed from somewhere else just a few days ago before taking off again but I know that now I will know what could be. 

As I wait in an airport, dragging my feet and luggage across these sanitised super buildings from gate to gate, I watch friends, and couples and families traveling together, sharing the journey, something so dull and boring, becoming a part of their memories. I can’t help but feel like the day I moved schools at age 6 and saw all the girls grouping up with their friends they have made the years before, I sat alone and wondered when I was going to have friends too. I have the gift to remember the slightest details of very normal occurrences but all the trips to these massive airports have slowly meshed into one. So many hours feeling so insignificant. 

I run to places when things don’t work out the way they should, when things get hard, I fantasise about how this feeling of not doing enough or not being enough will change when I am far away. That the distance I create will, in time, make them miss me, need me. 

I run and hope that I’ll miraculously land in a place new where things will slowly unfold and without even realising everything would have had fallen into place. But, as the excitement of the new dies off slowly and the reality and that feeling of dread finally settles back, the urge to run again takes over. And before I know it, I am yet again planning my great escape. 

There is also this sense of constant feeling unfamiliarity that follows. I am so blessed to have people I am close to all over the planet, people that feel like home and take me into their homes and make me feel like I have always lived there too. But, once I step out of that intimacy and they bring me into their outside worlds is where I feel yet again like an outsider. Introduced to new people again and again, some faces I recognise from my last visits with whom I can somewhat have better conversations with apart from the small talk. I sit in silence with a slight smile as they recall funny anecdotes that include people I have never heard of. Some amazing connections have been made in the past and I have made plenty of friends but I never stay long enough to nurture any relationship for them to evolve into anything more than watching each other lives unfold through our social medias. 

This is also the same when I come home to the island after long stretches of time abroad, where I have to be introduced to newcomers by my life long friends. I am so unsettled by the closeness they have a created, maybe sometimes out of jealousy, riddled with the feeling of having had missed out on quality time with those I love most. Nothing sucks more than being the new girl in my own home. 

The rapid gentrification of the island can also be destabilising,  places that once brought me comfort are suddenly ripped away or built on without what it feels like no warning. My childhood neighbourhood once quiet, peaceful yet a little eerie is now just janky bars where frat boys black out. The charming beach shacks that sold the best lassis are now crushed by ginormous beach clubs. I have ran away from home and can’t seem to recognise anything anymore. Had I known things would change this way, I may have appreciated the life I once had. 

I wonder if all of the relationships I had left for months would’ve grown stronger or those who could’ve been would have become something real. If love would for once been real and safe without the knowledge that I would once again leave. If that one person I had met the day before my flight could’ve been the one. If I am ever capable to have a real relationship knowing that all I do is run. 

I have lived through so many serendipities and have lived most of my life aimlessly, a life filled with beauty. The unknown is exciting and scary, it’s filled with adrenaline and leaves a lot of space for wonder. 

Yet, a life where roots are planted a little bit everywhere or sometimes yanked out to be planted into new soils over and over again can be hard to care for, if abandoned will slowly die and if lackadaisically nurtured will never achieve its full potential and growth. I have planted pieces of myself everywhere, only to realise that without stillness, nothing truly takes root—not even me.

There are times where it is important to sit still and sometimes watch the paint dry. To sit in the discomfort and really sit on it. 

Because, no matter how often or how far I run, I can never outrun myself.

Vahine Blaise, Bali, Indonesia,

April 2026