Anasthasia Shilov
Clarissa is a solo traveler who has been to 52 countries on the backpacker’s budget, or $30/day.
As a kid, I hated traveling (I know, hard to believe).
When I left the U.S. for China in elementary school, my classmates wrote me goodbye notes. They all expressed envy. One girl named McKenzie said “I wish I could pack myself into your suitcase and fly to China with you.” It was sweet, but all I wanted to do was stay. Even after I came back in 8th grade, I told McKenzie that Lincoln, Nebraska was the best place in the world and that I would stay in Lincoln forever.
What bothered me most about moving back and forth between China and the U.S. was not being able to grow up alongside everyone else. To my 4th-grade brain, going to China meant that I missed signing yearbooks, Alex K’s pool party and other trivial American memories. Now that I’ve grown up, I wouldn’t change a single thing about my childhood. Still, I face similar struggles today — just in a way that fits my 20s.
You would think that growing up resenting all the moving would make me yearn to stay put, now that I’m old enough to choose. But at some point, the difference I felt from my peers dissolved into a new idea of home: a life where I constantly moved around.
Every time Yale has school breaks, I have to go somewhere. I’ve been backpacking for so long that I forget what it’s like to have a permanent closet. I justify my travels by saying I’m a Global Affairs major — which I am — but part of me wonders if I’m making responsible decisions. I worry about my employability prospects. I know Yale Fellowships won’t last forever. How do I find meaning in all the travel?
At times, especially over months, it can feel like I’m forcing myself from one airport to another. I get tired of checking in and out every three days or wearing the same t-shirt at the top of my bag because I’m too lazy to repack.
For most, the word “travel” is reminiscent of a nice, relaxing vacation. But my trips are far from relaxing. In fact, they’re more high-stress and eventful than any midterm crunch I’ve had at Yale.
One of my first-year suitemates said “Yale is a weird place for weird people.” To this day, I still haven’t found a better way to put it. Yalies are an amalgamation of famous actors, Olympic athletes and regulars like me who have an innate desire to be half as interesting.
Just like everyone else at this school, I’m on a journey to discover my future. Should I go into consulting and work a 9–5 office job? Or should I spend my life wandering the planet as a digital nomad? In a world where society’s opinion didn’t matter, I would easily pick the second option — after all, 193 countries is the dream. But as much as I want to throw myself “all in,” it’s not that easy to up and leave.
The fact is, you don’t need a Yale degree to travel the world. You do need a lot of money. The two are not synonymous, and as it appears, I have the former and not the latter.
In moments like this, when I doubt my desire for endless adventure, I like to ask myself: “If I died tomorrow, would I be happy with how I’ve lived so far, given my age and resource limitations?”
So far, the answer has always been “yes.” Travel is life’s highest highs and its lowest lows. It’s hectic and unglamorous, but also educational and memorable. I’ve learned about anything from how to fly a hot air balloon to the nuances of Brunei’s monarchy system. In the end, I want my heart to be covered in stretch marks from collecting stories across all corners of life, and to have never lived a dull moment. I will work any odd gig necessary if it’ll pay for my plane ticket.
The first time I felt lonely while solo traveling was in Turkey. But the morning after I arrived, I awoke to rainbow-patterned hot air balloons outside my window, burning red-hot oxygen fires at their cores. It was nothing short of pure magic! I can always count on the world to remind me why it’s all worth it.
For me, happiness is the wonder of seeing a million lights dotted up the mountains of Quito at night, the warmth of eating Moroccan tagine with a stranger I met in the riad and the hypnotic boom of salty Atlantic waves crashing against charcoal-colored sand. These are joys I know I can never get from an office job.
Yale students know all about pressure. But as much as it feels like society wants you to do something, there is no singular definition of a “successful Yale grad.” So at risk of sounding like a Hallmark card, be confident in your dreams. Because if you died tomorrow and you weren’t happy, then what was the point?