The Urge to Go: Following That Inner Nudge (Even When It Doesn’t Make Sense)

I’ve been thinking a lot about this pattern I have. The urge to go. The urge to start over. Not to escape—but to explore. To drop myself into the unknown and see who I become inside it.

I’ve picked up and moved so many times in my life. Not always wisely. Not always with a plan. I rarely weigh pros and cons and have never done a cost-benefit breakdown. It’s more like a quiet internal yes that bypasses logic completely.

And that’s led to some unexpected outcomes.

I’ve stayed in places way too long. I’ve made decisions that unraveled halfway through. I’ve felt excitement, dread, and full-body panic—sometimes in the same afternoon. And sometimes, following that internal yes has meant facing the slow, agonizing process of having to walk away from relationships, careers, homes, even countries.

There’s a kind of fear that can show up when you live this way. Not just fear of failure or being wrong. But fear of your own pattern. Like—am I doing this again? Am I addicted to newness? Am I trying to outrun something?

Or maybe—am I actually wired for this?

“You are not stuck where you are unless you decide to be.” – Wayne Dyer

These days, I’m technically a digital nomad. But honestly, I’ve been living this way long before that term existed—before remote work was an option, before Wi-Fi was everywhere, before anyone thought you could see clients online as a psychotherapist.

Back then, it wasn’t about flexibility or laptop lifestyle. It was something deeper. Something I couldn’t always explain.

What patterns have you seen in your own decision-making? 

Have you ever followed an internal yes, 
even when it didn’t make sense on paper?

From California to Japan: A Pattern Takes Root

I’ve felt this urge for as long as I can remember.

When I was in fifth grade—pre-Internet, pre-anything—I wrote away to the California Chamber of Commerce for relocation materials. I was trying to convince my dad to move us out West. It didn’t work. But I made a quiet vow that I’d get there myself.

And after college, I did. Two suitcases. Five hundred bucks. No plan. Just a feeling.

Moving from the East Coast to California felt big at the time—but an even bigger leap came a few years later when I packed up again and moved to Japan.

It was one of the biggest leaps of my life.

The first time I arrived, I felt something I’ve never forgotten.

On one hand, it felt oddly familiar. On the other, it was like I’d landed on another planet. I couldn’t read a word. I couldn’t speak the language. I couldn’t even find my way out of the underground train station in Tokyo where I got dropped off.

And still… it felt right.

Something about being in a place where I didn’t know the rules lit me up. It made me alert, present, awake. Something about not having the language, the maps, the shared assumptions—it forced me to pay attention in a way I didn’t know I needed.

Have you ever dropped yourself into something completely unfamiliar—
just to see what would happen? 

What are some of the joys you’ve discovered in the unknown—
and what fears have followed you there?

From East to West to Something Else Entirely

After building a whole life in Japan, one of the strongest urges I’ve ever had hit me—and it told me it was time to move forward. Not just to another country, but to another way of being.

I left nearly everything behind. Ninety percent of my belongings. A business. A relationship. Deep friendships. A lifestyle I had built from the ground up.

And I came back to the U.S. to pursue something that had been quietly growing in me for years: the desire to be of service in a different way. I became a psychotherapist.

That chapter was its own kind of risk. A different kind of reinvention.

But eventually, the urge hit again.

The digital nomad path wasn’t part of some master plan—it emerged when virtual work became a real possibility. But it also came from something more psychological. I had gotten… comfortable. Too comfortable. And for me, that can be a problem.

Familiarity is tricky. It can seem like peace, like stability. But for some of us, it starts to feel like a slow suffocation. There’s a point where the known becomes a cage. Where routines that once felt grounding start to flatten the spirit.

What has comfort cost you? Have you ever known—
deep down—that it was time to reinvent yourself again?

Sedona: The Dream That Didn’t Fit

That brings me to now.

I’ve been living in Sedona for my first official stint as a digital nomad. It was the place I thought I’d land. Years ago, when I first visited, I was mesmerized. The beauty. The energy. The whole vibe. I thought: Here. This is it.

But after six months, it wasn’t working. The jaw-dropping landscape didn’t translate into a life that felt right. I stayed longer than I should have, hoping it would shift.

It didn’t.

And that became a kind of wake-up call—not because the place let me down, but because I began to see how much expectation had been driving the decision to move there. The idea that a place—or anything external—could somehow fulfill something internal. And like so many times before, I ran into the reality that expectation, especially when it’s unconscious, is often the root of dissatisfaction.

I’ve also come to realize: I’m a project-oriented person. I’ve always poured myself into big efforts—some of them aligned, some of them not. And even after devoting an inordinate amount of time and energy to something I suspected was off track, I’ve learned to walk away. To drop what’s not true. And little by little, to focus more precisely on what actually is.

So now I’m headed to Arkansas.

Why? Because someone I follow on YouTube moved there and made it look delightful. I was initially on my way to Florida, but when I saw that video, I thought, ‘What the hell?’ I’m going to Arkansas.

Have you ever chased something with high hopes—
only to discover it was built on an outdated idea 
of what would fulfill you? 

What helps you tell the difference between a project 
that’s still alive—and one that’s ready to be released?

What Are We Really Looking For?

That’s what I keep circling back to. What is this urge?

Is it a quirk? A character flaw? A form of avoidance? Or is it something human?

This drive to seek out the unknown… to place ourselves in unfamiliar territory… to feel life press against us in real time. Is it a developmental impulse? A soul pattern? A kind of internal evolution trying to unfold?

I used to ask, ‘What’s wrong with me?’ Why can’t I just settle down like other people? Now I wonder if maybe that’s the wrong question.

Maybe the better question is: What does a life of continual reorientation teach you?

What do you think this urge for change is really pointing toward—
for you? 

What has it taught you that nothing else could?

Your Turn

I wonder—have you ever had the urge to leave it all behind? To change direction midstream? To throw away something that “made sense” to everyone else and start over, just because something deep in you said go?

If so, what did you do? Did you follow it? Ignore it? Did you regret the choice you made?

I’m Not Done Moving

Right now, my car is packed with what I think I need. (Way too much, if I’m being honest.) I’ve got no fixed plan—just a strong gut instinct, a few client sessions I can do remotely, and a deep excitement about long road trips, new towns, and the weird joy of finding a Starbucks in the middle of nowhere… so I can indulge in my guilty pleasure, a cappuccino with four shots.

This is where I’m at.

And this time, I’m not asking what’s wrong with me. I’m just paying attention. Watching the pattern. And wondering what it’s asking me to see.

So let me ask you:

• What’s the most significant leap you’ve ever taken?
• What part of you said yes—and what part resisted?
• And how do you know when it’s time to go?

Hit reply. I’d really love to know.

…sandy

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