The Grass Is Greener Where I’m Not

FEATUREDOUTSIDE THE NOOK

I was sitting at home the other day, probably scrolling instead of doing something useful, thinking about how much better my life would be if I owned a little bookshop café somewhere in the English countryside.

There were only a few minor problems with this plan.

I do not live in England. I cannot afford to open a bookshop. I have no idea how to run a café.

Still, the imaginary version of me has it all figured out. She is relaxed, well-read, and effortlessly interesting. She spends her mornings arranging books, knows all her customers by name, and somehow never worries about money, inventory, taxes, or waking up before sunrise to make pastries.

She also probably wears a very good sweater.

Meanwhile, the real me is sitting at home in Texas, surrounded by the husband, pets, books, games, and comfortable life I genuinely love, wondering whether I should be somewhere else.

Apparently, I’m Always Supposed to Be Somewhere Else

Edinburgh, Scotland

For as long as I can remember, I have had a hard time feeling completely content with where I am.

My parents have pointed it out. My husband has pointed it out. I have pointed it out to myself while looking up flights for a vacation I will spend three days obsessively planning and ~~may~~ will eventually cancel.

When I am home, I want foreign countries, new food, ancient ruins, mountains, oceans, and adventures that sound impressive when I tell people about them later.

When I finally go somewhere, I miss my pets and my bed by the first night.

I can spend months craving an escape from my ordinary routine, only to arrive at the beach and immediately wonder what my cat is doing. Probably sleeping. But apparently, I need to be there to supervise it.

It is not that I am bored with my life. I like my life.

I just keep wondering how much more life I could fit into it.

There is always another place to visit, hobby to try, skill to learn, or version of myself I could become. I am constantly reaching for the next experience, project, career path, or slightly more elevated version of my life.

Sometimes that is ambition.

Sometimes it is curiosity.

Sometimes it is me being dramatic because I have followed the same routine for three days in a row.

This Is Not My First Imaginary Life

The famously graffiti-covered bathroom door at The Elephant House in Edinburgh - covered in messages from Harry Potter fans.

I have invented a lot of lives for myself over the years.

At different points, I have seriously considered becoming a marine biologist so I could save sharks, an archaeologist because I watched The Mummy, and a museum worker because apparently, I believed museums were just quieter versions of that.

I have planned entire lives in New York City, Los Angeles, England, and several other places I could not afford to live. I spoke with a Coast Guard recruiter. I studied British literature in England and Scotland because I have always been obsessed with British culture.

Some of these ideas lasted for years.

Some lasted approximately one afternoon.

Not every attempt to make my life more exciting was equally wise, but the urge behind them was usually the same: there had to be more out there, and I wanted to experience as much of it as possible.

That feeling has followed me into adulthood.

I joined an indoor soccer team. I started streaming on Twitch, which almost successfully lasted a year. I began building a website. I travel whenever I can. And when I travel, I do not only want to sit beside a pool for seven days.

If I am going to Mexico, I want the beach, but I also want to see the temples, swim through cenotes, jet ski, try new food, and come home feeling like I actually experienced the place.

Although, to be fair, I also want to return to my couch immediately afterward.

The Homebody and the Person Constantly Looking at Flights

My favorite little homebodies & El Castillo at Chichén Itzá — Yucatán, Mexico

I sometimes feel like two completely different people are fighting over control of my life.

One of them is a homebody.

She loves routines, quiet evenings, books, movies, games, and being surrounded by her favorite people. She likes sleeping in her own bed and knowing exactly where everything is.

Home is where my husband is. It is where my dog and cat are, my two soul pets, who I miss an embarrassing amount whenever I leave. It is the place where I feel most comfortable being completely myself.

Which is probably why office days feel so dramatic when I’m used to working from home.

Then there is the other version of me.

She is constantly looking at flights.

She wants road trips, foreign countries, historical places, dramatic scenery, and experiences most people around her have never had. She wants freedom, discovery, possibility, and a break from knowing exactly what tomorrow will look like.

When life becomes too repetitive, this version of me starts searching for something to change. A trip. A hobby. A project. A new career path. An embarrassing DIY haircut. Anything that makes life feel bigger again.

Neither version is fake.

I am not an adventurer trapped inside a homebody’s life, and I am not a homebody who keeps forcing herself to travel.

I am both, which is deeply inconvenient.

The Life I Keep Inventing Somewhere Else

Hiking the moors near Haworth, England. Exactly the kind of place I imagine disappearing to.

When I imagine living somewhere else, I rarely picture the full reality of it.

I picture the English countryside, but not the cost of moving overseas.

I picture a peaceful cabin in the mountains, but not driving down an icy road for groceries.

I picture a slow, beautiful life surrounded by books and nature, but not chores, traffic, bills, exhaustion, or the fact that I would still be the same person when I arrived.

The version of me living there is always more relaxed. She is adventurous, creative, confident, stress-free, and easygoing.

She is apparently healed by scenery alone.

I genuinely do crave the locations. I want to see the mountains, oceans, castles, bookstores, and landscapes I imagine. But I also crave the person I believe I would become there.

Maybe I do not always want a completely different life.

Maybe I want to feel different in the life I already have.

The Problem With Always Looking Over the Fence

A trail signpost on the moors near Haworth, England

Wanting more has brought a lot of good things into my life.

It has pushed me to travel, study abroad, try new hobbies, meet new people, and do things I may have avoided if I were naturally satisfied with staying comfortable.

But it has also made peace harder.

Sometimes I catch myself planning the next experience while I am still living the current one. Anticipation can be more exciting than the event itself. I am always looking a few steps ahead, which means I occasionally miss the little moments that make right now special.

My restlessness has also sometimes looked like dissatisfaction to the people around me.

When I was younger, “anywhere but here” did not always show up as healthy curiosity. Sometimes it meant skipping school, trying to act older than I was, and making decisions my parents understandably did not support.

My desire for more did not always look like ambition from the outside.

Sometimes it looked like I hated where I was.

Even now, constantly talking about the next place, project, job, or life improvement can make it sound like the life I have is not enough. That has caused arguments with both my husband and my parents.

The truth is, my current life contains so many things a younger version of me wanted.

I own a home. I am married. I have my dog and cat. We have steady incomes, good jobs, and a life that is safe and comfortable.

I am grateful for all of it.

But gratitude and restlessness apparently have no problem living in the same body.

Maybe the Grass Is Just Different

Meeting the sheep on the moors near Haworth, England

I am beginning to realize that every version of life comes with something difficult.

A peaceful home life can occasionally feel repetitive.

An adventurous life can be exhausting, expensive, and overwhelming.

A bookshop café in England would still have bills, difficult customers and broken equipment.

There is no place where life becomes permanently effortless.

That does not mean I have to stop wanting more. I do not think curiosity is something I need to fix. I like that I want to experience things. I like that I try new hobbies, visit new places, and imagine different possibilities for myself.

The change I am trying to make is smaller than that.

I am learning to say, “I would love to go there,” instead of, “I need to be there to feel fulfilled.”

Somewhere else can be a want instead of an escape.

I can love home and still need adventure. I can be excited about the next trip without treating the months before it like time I have to get through. I can want a bigger life without acting like the one I have is small.

Learning to Stay Where My Feet Are

Perched on a stone wall somewhere in Germany

I am not going to suddenly become a person who is perfectly present and never checks flight prices during her lunch break.

That would not be believable.

But I can find smaller adventures inside my ordinary life. I can explore more places near home, take a short road trip, try a new restaurant, walk through a park, or pick up a book that lets me live inside another world for a while.

I can also enjoy planning a trip without wishing it were happening immediately. Anticipation can be part of the experience.

Being present does not mean I stop thinking about the next trip.

It means I stop mentally packing for it while life is happening right in front of me.

I still want the English countryside.

I still want mountains, ancient ruins, dramatic coastlines, unfamiliar food, and every life I have not lived yet. I will probably always wonder what is around the next corner.

I just do not want to spend so much time looking for it that I forget what is already here: the home I once wanted, the person I chose, two pets I miss after a single night away, and a life that may be quieter than my imaginary ones but is not empty.

Maybe the grass will always look greener somewhere else.

I am just trying to remember that mine is can be green, too.

Do you ever catch yourself imagining a completely different life somewhere else? I’d love to hear about it in the comments.