An abridged version of this post aired on KQED’s Perspectives on February 6, 2026.
In my twenties, I traveled with a checklist and a rule: I could never travel to the same place twice. I had set a goal to visit 30 countries by the time I turned 30. Returning to a place I’d already been felt like a missed opportunity — a wasted stamp in a passport that could have been earned somewhere new. There were too many places to visit and too little time to repeat myself.
So, I kept moving.
I built meticulous itineraries, optimizing every day and every hour. Every single three-day weekend was planned well in advance, and I always found that the best time to plan my next trip was while I was on one. My mom would often admonish me, “You should be living in the present and enjoying where you are.” And I was. At the same time, I was inspired to keep making progress and to make sure I always had something new to look forward to.
But somewhere along the way, that momentum slowed.
Since turning 30 almost 8 years ago now, the same three countries have remained at the top of my travel bucket list: Colombia, Jordan, and Turkey. It’s not that I don’t want to go to these places. I do. And yet, when it’s time to plan, I hesitate.
These days, the effort required to do a new place “right” feels more daunting than it once did. The research. The planning. The pressure to understand a place quickly and make the most of every moment. Instead, I find myself returning to places I’ve already been: Mexico, Italy, Portugal.
There’s a familiar joke about Millennials rewatching the same comfort shows and movies over and over again. There’s science behind it, something about predictability, familiarity, and reduced cognitive load. I think the same thing is happening with how I travel now.
When I return to a place I’ve been before, I already know how to exist there. I know how to get around and what to expect. I don’t feel pressure to extract meaning from every moment.
I can rent an apartment instead of booking a hotel. I try to stay in a new neighborhood to experience a different part of the city. If it rains, I stay in and read a book without guilt. I no longer try to see every single thing. In fact, I’ve adopted a new rule: I always leave one thing behind. Something I missed that gives me a reason to return.
Each time I go back to a place, it reveals itself differently. I notice which restaurants have closed and which new ones have opened. I see how the city changes with the seasons. I start to recognize patterns: where people gather, how weekends feel, what daily life looks like when you’re not rushing through it.
A return trip makes me feel less like a visitor and more like a temporary local.
I once set my next travel goal as “50 countries by 40.” Now, I’m reconsidering. Maybe instead of counting countries, I’ll keep revisiting the places where I feel the most comfortable. Not because they’re safe or easy, but because they offer something deeper.
Returning allows me to build a sense of belonging, even if it’s partial or temporary. Over time, across multiple trips, I start to establish rhythms and habits in another part of the world. Roots, of a sort.
This kind of travel doesn’t skim the surface. It settles in.
And lately, that feels far more meaningful than chasing the next stamp in my passport.