Remote Work, the Myth of Escape, and the Quiet Desire to Leave
There was a moment, not long ago, when the world cracked open and told us we could live anywhere.
The lockdowns hit, the offices closed, and suddenly everything that once felt immovable—commutes, cubicles, cities—became optional. Or at least negotiable. Tech companies posted up in Hawaii. Creatives found their muse in Mexico City. Digital nomads became a lifestyle, not a punchline. The great migration had begun.
Work-from-anywhere was no longer a hypothetical—it was a Google Doc and a decent Wi-Fi signal.
The cultural tone shifted fast. Remote work wasn’t just practical; it was aspirational. People weren’t just relocating—they were reinventing. Every other LinkedIn post became a life manifesto: a laptop in Bali, a chai latte in Lisbon, a caption about freedom and fulfillment. If your job could be done from anywhere, then the only thing keeping you rooted was your own lack of imagination… right?
That was the pitch. Now, the retraction.
Corporate America—never known for its imagination—is pulling back. CEOs are dusting off the office chairs. The return-to-office mandates are couched in language about “collaboration,” “innovation,” and “company culture,” but the subtext is clearer: We let you wander. Now get back in line.
Suddenly, the freedom to live anywhere is feeling a little less permanent.
But here’s what’s interesting: even before this corporate snapback, people were already slowing down. The dream of remote work had collided with the reality of… well, life. Internet connections failed. Visas expired. Time zones got exhausting. The fantasy of freedom started to look suspiciously like dislocation.
And yet—the urge to leave remains.
Somewhere Else. Not Just a Vacation. A Different Life.
This isn’t about being tired of your apartment. This is about a deeper kind of fatigue—political, cultural, existential. The sense that maybe, just maybe, this country doesn’t feel like home anymore.
Talk to enough people—especially those who lean left, or center-left, or simply tired—and you’ll hear a familiar tone: frustration. Exhaustion. A quiet alienation. It’s the feeling of watching your values debated like clickbait. Of trying to raise kids in a place where school shootings are normalized and basic rights are up for review every election cycle. It’s the drip-drip erosion of trust in institutions, media, government—even community.
So, the idea of leaving? It’s not about running. It’s about preservation. It’s about control. If I can’t fix the system, maybe I can remove myself from it. There’s a term for this: “quiet quitting” your country. And honestly, I’ve thought about it.
But then I hit the part most people don’t post about. The part after the inspirational tweet. The part where life, logistics, and limitations show up.
I can’t just go.
My income is tied to a large, stable American healthcare organization. My roots are here—deep ones. My family, my network, my responsibilities. I’m not untethered. I don’t have the luxury of movement without consequence.
And even if I did—where would I go? Not just somewhere else. Somewhere better? Somewhere simpler? Or just… somewhere different?
The Travel Trap
There’s a reason why Instagram feeds have made travel the ultimate currency of freedom. It’s beautiful. It’s easy to aestheticize. But for many, the fantasy of travel is just that—a fantasy. We confuse movement with meaning. We treat escape like evolution.
And let’s be honest—most of us aren’t looking to live in another country. We’re looking to feel different. Less pressure. More peace. A better version of ourselves that’s not crushed under a never-ending to-do list and $9 coffee.
We romanticize places we don’t know and forget that starting over is hard. That visas are complicated. That friends don’t grow on trees. That the language barrier isn’t just quirky—it’s isolating. And that every new beginning comes with its own bureaucracy.
The question isn’t just can I go? The question is: Who am I there?
So I Stay. For Now. But I Ask.
Is this where I want to be forever? Am I planting, or just enduring?
The truth is, I live in the tension. Somewhere between comfort and curiosity. Between responsibility and restlessness. I’m not disillusioned enough to walk away. But I’m not content enough to stop asking the question.
In the meantime, I do what I can. I invest. I build. I stay out of the outrage machine. I read. I study. I listen. I try to stay informed—not by headlines, but by context. I raise my kids with the values passed down from my Filipino elders. Respect. Discipline. Faith. Quiet strength.
I keep my head down—not in submission, but in focus. I try to be a net positive in my community. I pay my bills. I mentor. I create. I try. I try again.
Because maybe, for now, the answer isn’t escape. It’s alignment.
Maybe it’s about building a life that feels like mine, even if the system doesn’t. Maybe it’s about finding peace in purpose, not just place.
That’s where I’ve landed—for now. But the question lingers. Maybe it always will.
So I’ll ask you:
Have you thought about leaving? Not for vacation—for good. What would it take? What holds you here? What pulls you away? Is it political? Cultural? Personal?
And if you have made the move—what did you find on the other side?
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Let’s talk.
Drop a comment. Tell me where your head is. Maybe you’re already gone. Maybe you’re on the fence. Or maybe you’ve decided staying is a form of protest in itself. Either way, the conversation’s open. Just don’t bring your travel agent’s pitch. Bring the real story.
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