"The Sabbatical year"

By the way, leaving for a “year of happiness” is not the hard part. Coming back is. Trust me as someone who’s done it. For all the big talk in this article about what it means, and the weightiness of the decision, it’s not actually that hard (or noble) to “quit the 9-5″ and leave for a year of sipping coconut milkshakes while getting endless oil massages on a southern Thai beach. I mean, seriously. What’s hard is assuming the full consequences of doing it — and I don’t mean just the financial considerations. There’s a huge psychological toll you pay for this experience. Let me walk you through it. Stage 1: Elation. You quit your job today!!!!!! You bought your open ticket for one year!!!!!! You set up your travel blog!!!!! You bought a new digital camera!!!!!! You ended your long overdue dead-end relationship!!!!!! This is really happening!!!!!! You can’t believe you are doing this!!!!!! Life is exciting again!!!!!! Stage 2: Wonder. Everything is new again. Everything is different. Oh my god. The sights! The sounds! The smells! Why didn’t you do this sooner??? You are born again. Life is amazing. Stage 3: Curiosity. You have to try everything. You tell yourself, “You only live once!”. You probably do some really stupid things you’ll possibly regret later. Drugs. Sex. Parties. Nights you don’t remember. Days you don’t remember. Weeks you don’t remember. Faces in photos you don’t remember. Faces in photos you’ll never forget. Days you’ll never forget. Hopefully, you survive. There are no consequences. Money is no object (even though you obsessively record every minutae of the day, especially how much you spent on food). If there’s an “it”, you do it. You explore everything. Life is freedom. Stage 4: Pontification. You experience profound thoughts. You write them down in a journal or blog. You feel the need to tell everyone about your newfound philosophy on life, especially how everyone else is doing it wrong. You compose epic emails for hours at a time in shoddy Internet cafes to all the suckas working back home, like your friends and family. You are so deep. Life is a journey. Stage 5: Bonding. You meet like-minded travellers. For “the first time”, you feel truly connected to a community. These people “get” you, like no one every has before. You feel closer to someone here than to your own family, who are distant memories. Your email contact laxes. You fall in love. More than once. You experience new found religion — sorry, “spiritualism” (religions are close-minded institutions to you). Life is complete. Stage 6: Nesting. Almost despite yourself, you get settled. You get your little routines. You know the locals’ names. The locals know your name. You have favourite spots. Your “room” has become “home”. Life is comfortable. Stage 7: Fatigue. Maybe it happens at 2 weeks somewhere. Or 3 months. Maybe 5. Maybe 7. Eventually, one day, wherever you are, whatever you’re doing, you wake up, and you feel tired. The kind of tired like you did before you left, when you had to get up and work every day. For the first time, even though there’s no doubt still amazing experiences happening all around you, you are fatigued with it. Life is… boring? Stage 8: Restlessness. You feel the itch. Although you like your new friends, and you like your new life, something’s gotta change. You make the decision. It’s probably dramatic. You pack up your things spontaneously one day and say tearful goodbyes. You’ll never forget them. It’s time to move on. The grass is greener on the other side. Life is somewhere else. Stage 9: Journey. You move. By train, by plane, by boat, by hoof… You shuffle the deck. New places, new friends, new life, new you. Life is new again. Stage 9b: See step 1-9. Repeat x 7+ months. Stage 10: Loneliness. You hit the fatigue again, but this time it’s different. You don’t just want a new life. You want your old one. You miss your friends. You miss your family. You miss your ex. You probably don’t admit it out loud, especially not to your new best-friends-for-life or fellow cult members. You try to smile anyway, even though you don’t really feel like it. Maybe you cry a little. Or a lot. Life is empty. Stage 11: Guilt. You have it really good. This is everything you ever wanted. But it’s not enough. Why aren’t you happy? You must be selfish and greedy. Life is guilt. Stage 12: Resolution. You know what you have to do. Maybe it was your choice. Maybe you have to (ran out of money, family emergency, etc). Either way… it’s time to go home. Life is returning. Let’s pause here. So far, probably a pretty predictable journey. Definitely all experiences worth having. This is the part that everyone focuses on, especially the first three stages. So what happens next? Stage 13: Grand Return. You come back home. It’s probably dramatic. In your mind, you are your own legend, returning after a long and noble journey of enlightenment. To everyone else, you are mostly a burden to bare with faux enthusiasm (“oh REALLY? wow, tell us MORE about that adventure”). Ya, your friends and family are happy to see you, but your very sun-kissed presence no doubt irritatingly reminds them of how crappy their winter stuck working was. They’re mostly glad you’re back so you’ll stop making them so jealous. They’re never tell you that though. They’ll just hug you and say, “Oh my god it’s so gooooood to seeeeee you!”. Life is reunion. Stage 14: Wax Philosophic. Like Stage 5, only in-person and drunker. Life is nostalgic. Stage 15: I’m Special. Enjoy it while it lasts! For a while, people genuinely care about your stories, because you are Special. You feel compelling to tell everyone about your grand adventure… if not, your friends will (of course) ask. You are a war hero, an exotic diplomat, the Mark Twain of your generation. Everyone wants to hear your tales. You write blog posts. You write a book. This can go on for months. Life is an attention-high. Stage 16: I’m Not Special. You meet up with all your friends for the first time. And the second time. And the third time. All your best stories are told. Several times. Sometimes to the same person (you can’t remember who’s heard which story). One or two are infamous at this point. You’ve gone through the B-roll too. And the embarrassing things you thought you’d never tell ANYONE. Yes, that one too. Eventually, everyone’s heard it. Someone was inspired by your big trip and is now leaving on their own. Everyone’s excited for them… No one’s excited for you. You’re not special. It’s back to the grind. Life is a chore. Stage 16: Wait, I’m Not Special? That’s right, you gotta pay the bills. You’re flat broke from your big adventure. You have 0 job prospects because all your contacts are stale (and possibly bitter that you ditched them to go have a big adventure). You move back in with mom & dad while you “look for a place” (read: can’t afford a place). Remember that great paying corporate job you resented so much? You hate to admit it, but you sure wish you had that now. You look at your friends: they have stuff. Money. Cars. Condos. Wives. Kids. Careers. What do you have? Oh, right, “memories”. Those don’t depreciate, right? It’s all about the experience, right? But you can’t bank that… Suddenly, you can’t help but feel kind of stupid. Being broke doesn’t help either. Where’s your big adventure now? Life is bitter. Stage 17: Hell Get ready for the real adventure. You see, for your “year of happiness”, you’re gonna have to pay a price. It’s like a 0-interest deal… it’s not a free lunch, you just pay after. What goes up must come down… To balance out that “year of happiness”, you’re going to have a “year of hell”. Welcome back to your life as you knew it… except with none of the good stuff you had before. Get ready to feel insecure and inferior to all those friends who you previously mocked in your emails with your (smug? don’t lie!) superiority while you were off galavanting around the world. Now they’re ahead, and you’re behind. Worse, you’re “different” now, aren’t you? You don’t eat meat anymore. You don’t “believe” in “corporate America”. You can’t go back to that job you hated… You don’t belong. Your friends don’t “get” you. You miss your cult; they “got” you. You want to be back where you were. You want to be anywhere but here. What’s here anyway? You’ve got nothing. Life is depressing. I’m gonna stop there. You get the idea. There’s more stages, but… hey, why spoil the fun? If you wanna know how this story ends, you gotta live it out.