Travel Reflection: When the Dream Job Ends and Your Aligned Life Begins

Learning to own your lived experience, one step at a time

If you’ve peeked at my About page, you already know that Fork & Footpath wasn’t a long-held dream. It was born from a life pivot — the kind you don’t choose, but the kind that makes it impossible to ignore how far out of alignment you’ve drifted.

For most of my life, I did what I was supposed to do. I worked hard. I got good grades. I packed my schedule with extracurriculars to look “well-rounded.” I excelled in my first full-time job. I earned a master’s degree from a prestigious university. I climbed the ladder, collected both soft and hard skills, and spent the two decades building a career that looked, from the outside, undeniably successful.

Eventually, I landed at Google — what I believed was my dream job at my dream company.From the beginning, though, something felt fragile. Not the work itself, but the team’s place within the larger organization. I joined in the post-pandemic era, as power shifted back toward employers and artificial intelligence began reshaping entire industries. For more than a year, I suspected my role might eventually be eliminated. Rising rent had already prompted me to move back in with my parents to create a financial buffer.

Three years later, my entire core team and leadership group were eliminated in a reduction in force — a “RIF,” as it’s called in the corporate world.

I did what every “responsible” person does. I updated my résumé. I applied to jobs. I lined up interviews. But my heart wasn’t in it. I had been chewed up and spit out by a system to which I’d devoted most of my adult life.

At the time, my responsibilities were minimal: COBRA, a storage unit, and day-to-day expenses I could manage. Google also provided generous severance. For the first time in a long time, I wasn’t tethered.

So when I reached the final stage of preparing for an interview for a job I deeply admired — the kind of role you don’t walk away from — I did something that felt wildly irresponsible. I withdrew from the process. Instead, I committed to planning a three-month solo trip through Europe.

I had never traveled solo before. I’d never been to Central Europe. To many people — including some who know me well — I don’t come across as particularly spontaneous. I’m calculated. Straight-laced. Risk-averse.

But when I told my dear friend Tess about the plan, she wasn’t surprised.

“You’re extremely independent,” she said. “This will be amazing for you.” Then she laughed and added, “And I hate you a little,” juggling two kids and a demanding job of her own.

What that moment made clear was this: I had spent decades carefully building a life defined by achievement, stability, and external validation — and then, very suddenly, I chose to put it all on pause for something I knew, deep down, I needed.

The trip itself was transformative. Fork & Footpath exists to share what I learned along the way — recommendations, reflections, and practical tips — but I’ll be honest: the imposter syndrome, and the void that follows a major life change, are very real.

My international travel experience is limited. I’m not an expert. I didn’t reinvent the wheel.

And yet.

Whenever I tell someone about the trip, the reaction is always the same: amazement. I suddenly feel like I did something extraordinary. And I did. But the trip is over now. And in some ways, it almost feels like it didn’t happen.

Twelve weeks is a long time to travel. I hit a wall around week eight — the way runners hit the wall around mile 21 or 22 in a marathon. And still, it flew by. When you return home to people who didn’t share the experience, there’s a strange sense that it all existed in a vacuum.

So you find ways to keep it alive.

I wear a wrist brace at work now — inflammation from repeatedly lifting my backpack during my trip — and every shift, someone asks about it. Sometimes it’s a coworker. Sometimes it’s a customer. The trip comes up. It’s a strange thing to compress a life-changing experience into a 30-second conversation at a checkout counter. I don’t want to brag, but I also cherish any excuse to remember.

One day, a coworker turned to me and said, “You’re a world traveler — I’m going to Budapest later this year and have questions.”

I almost turned around to see who she was talking to.

But it was me.

We talked. I shared what I’d learned. She found it genuinely helpful.

And that’s when something shifted.

This project nearly didn’t happen because I kept asking myself: Who am I to share this? I don’t have credentials to prove expertise. I’m not a professional travel blogger. I’m not an authority.

What I do have is lived experience — lessons I couldn’t find in guidebooks (including those by Rick Steves), insights that only surfaced by doing the thing, and a renewed commitment to remembering that there are other ways to live besides constant hustle and productivity.

I’m still learning.

But if something I share helps someone feel more confident, more prepared, or more open to choosing a different path — even briefly — then that feels like enough. 

Grateful you’re here. More to come.

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