"Traveler" Was My Identity. Then I Started Canceling Trips.

On trip anxiety, stillness, and writing about home

Hi writer friend,

I’m brewing pots of coffee at 5 pm all week to meet my guidebook deadline—so it is with great pleasure and relief that I bring to you another beautiful guest essay today, this one by Jamie Cattanach who writes about Portland, Oregon and personal finance and pens sharp and poetic personal essays, one of which was recently nominated for a Pushcart!

Also, a quick note that next week I’m taking off for a little family vaca. I’ll be back in your inbox the following week with a new lineup of Q&As, more guest essays, and some bigger pieces from me that I’ve been slowly chipping away at.

Here’s everything you’ll find in this edition of Wild Writing:

• "Traveler" Was My Identity. Then I Started Canceling Trips. By Jamie Cattanach

• Upcoming deadlines including a first chapter contest, a 6-week residency in Brooklyn that sounds incredible, $10,000 grants for artists in Washington, and more.

• Upcoming events and education opportunities—including a memoir writing workshop I’ll be joining!

• In the Weeds: Some words I’m tangled in this week.

"Traveler" Was My Identity. Then I Started Canceling Trips.

By

Jamie Cattanach

Every time I open a new browser tab, I get a photo of some beautiful part of the world. A few weeks ago, it was Hvitserkur, a craggy basalt stack off the northern coast of Iceland. Yesterday brought the Nā Pali Coast of Kauai, Hawaii, cradled by technicolor turquoise waters. This morning, it’s the hills of Yining, China—the plush, rippling green of them like velvet draped over tree bark.

Even at the height of my travel frenzy, I knew I’d (unfortunately) spend more time in front of my computer than in a new-to-me place. That’s why I found a browser extension to serve me this digital alternative. But even a stunning new photo each day was no match for my list of must-see-in-person travel destinations. And as an unmarried, child-free freelance writer, there’s been little holding me back from adventure—which means I’ve been lucky enough to check many of those destinations off the list.

From spending a month on the Mediterranean coast of Spain to rolling around the U.S. in a 17-foot travel trailer, I’ve taken lots of advantage of my freedom. For years, I had no permanent address; if asked, I’d list my parents’ house. I often had no idea where I’d be from one week to another.

Jamie at the Theater of Epidaurus in Greece

Calling myself a “travel writer” was a stretch—I was more like a writer who traveled (and occasionally got to cover places she’d been, almost by accident). Still, my roaming was all tied up with my ambition to be an artist. To have anything worth saying, I knew, I needed to go out and experience life.

How vain it is to sit down to write when you have not stood up to live, I’d typed into my Facebook “About” section as a Moleskine-toting 23-year-old, quoting Thoreau. Admittedly, the line was a kind of defensive self-soothing: Even just out of college, I already felt guilty and behind, afraid I wasn’t writing often or fast enough—afraid I’d somehow already skewered my chance at success.

But traveling as if it were my mission was a good distraction—and, indeed, a good way to gather stories. I shared kilos of lamb chops and carafes of red table wine with strangers at Varvakeios in Athens; I wandered alone in the pre-dawn dark up to the lip of Arizona’s Horseshoe Bend. I flooded with warmth each time I saw the name of a city—printed in an article; blinking over an airport gate with a crowd assembled below it—glowing with the knowledge that, yes, I’ve been there.

In Spanish, the verb conocer is used for both meeting new people and visiting new places. I spent my twenties becoming acquainted with the world.

Of course, constant movement also has its downsides.

By late 2019, I’d turned 30—a milestone that made me feel like it might be time to find a home base. I was tired of the all-the-time strain of figuring out where to be—and in some ways, who to be—next. I wanted to feel like I belonged somewhere. Shortly after I landed in Portland, Oregon, the pandemic hit, reifying my decision. I’d already signed a lease, but 2020 was the first year in many that I stayed in one state for all four seasons.

It didn’t feel like getting stuck. It felt like getting stable. With endless trails and diverse ecosystems all within a two-hour drive of my new city, adventure didn’t have to mean hours-long flights or days on the highway—or a constant rotation of new, strange beds. After every hike or weekend trip, I’d come home: to my favorite coffee shop, my favorite pizza joint, my sweet new neighbor friend and our morning walks to the local dog park. (Spoiler alert: That neighbor friend was Britany!)

Still, my home was dominated by a massive map of the world—into which I drove colorful pins marking each place I’d been. Still, I kept my must-see list.

I still considered traveler a key part of my identity.

But then, I started cancelling trips.

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First, it was an October week in Iceland—an attempt to see the northern lights during the well-publicized solar maximum. A friend and I would share an Airbnb, rent a too-expensive car, and drive around the Golden Circle, soaking our tired bodies in as many of the island country’s thermal pools as we could find.

Then, it was a February getaway to Mexico, where I’d immerse myself in the Spanish I’d been studying for the last year—and enjoy some sunny warmth to break up a long Portland winter.

There was also the weekend jaunt up to Fairbanks—another effort to encounter the aurora—and a return trip to my once-hometown, Santa Fe.

Each time, as the date of departure approached, I’d feel anxiety roil inside me—and not the kind that could be confused with excitement. This anxiety was the my home is so cozy I don’t want to leave for a whole week kind. The finding an Airbnb in a foreign country after a 20-hour travel day can really suck kind. The I’m going to miss all my friends and that one cool party this weekend kind. (And also, yes: the air travel is kind of scary right now kind, if I’m being honest.)

The cumulative effect found me cramming things into my suitcase with not excitement, but irritation—and lying awake for long nights of tossing and turning. In February, I felt the trickle of relief when a snowstorm meant I’d need to postpone my flight to Mexico City by a day. I walked my dog, Aspen, through a powder-covered Alberta Park, whistling.

Restless and shaky again that night in bed, I asked myself out loud, “This is supposed to be fun. What am I doing?” I pushed back the covers, went for my laptop, and canceled everything in a flurry. The trickle became a cascade—even though, for not the first time, I’d forfeit part of what I’d spent on reservations.

I wanted to want to go. But I didn’t want to go.

The next day, I woke up feeling bright, but also sheepish. Although I’d already set a precedent, I told very few people about my newest set of canceled plans.

Given my history, this sudden homebody-ism felt something like failure—or even a minor existential crisis. If I’m not a traveler, who am I?

That’s a question I’m still picking through. I probably always will be. But if I’ve discovered anything in the last five years, it’s that staying in one place can pay dividends.

Cherry blossoms in Portland.

It’s true that I met many incredible people while I was traveling—some of whom I’m still in touch with. But when you’re always on the move, it’s hard for relationships to take root. Only by living in one city for multiple seasons have I been able to become truly integrated into a community: to know the names of almost everyone at my local spin studio; to find myself on a crowded basement dance floor with a dozen other local writers I’m lucky enough to call my friends.

Friends. I have the kinds of friends here who are more like family: friends with whom I ping-pong voice memos back and forth all day; friends whose homes I can dispatch to at the last minute. Friends with whom I can barely stop laughing—but who have also witnessed me heartbroken on their couches, crying and eating chocolate. I am not just seen here. I am known.

If I spent my 20s getting acquainted with the world, I’ve spent my 30s becoming intimate with it—and true intimacy takes time and patience. It isn’t just about people, but place. I may have pressed fewer pins into my map these last few years, but meanwhile, I can get around most of Portland without a GPS. I’m on a first-name basis with many of its streets, its parks, its buildings—even a few specific trees.

And if there’s one answer I’ve always known to the who am I question, it’s writer. And staying in one place has prospered my writing, too. Not having to constantly plan my next move frees up time and brain space to focus on my ongoing projects. I’ve also done enough exploring to write for local outlets, covering the inspiring friend I made at the farmers market or the best latte in town. After that last piece published, I went into the coffee shop and saw it puttied to the wall behind the baristas. I really live here, I thought, sipping the same drink I’d written about—enjoying the comfort of its familiar flavor.

As a younger adult, I’d always thought the comfort of the familiar was a poor substitute for the excitement of the novel—that seeking out familiarity was necessarily a sacrifice, often based in fear or ignorance. But now I see that one lifetime can have enough room for both. I’m so grateful for the time I spent all over the place. It did give me fuel to tell more powerful stories in a richer and better-informed context. It was also just plain fun.

A quote I’ve always heard attributed to Flannery O’Connor holds that “nothing needs to happen to a writer’s life after he or she is 20.” By then, enough has already happened to write about for a lifetime.

While I don’t know if that’s true (and it took me another ten years beyond that recommendation) I’m glad that as I’ve aged, I’ve exchanged breadth for depth—both in the ways I look out at the world and the ways I look inward. The most recent two trips that I didn’t cancel were silent meditation retreats—quieter adventures I was genuinely excited to take on. The irony didn’t escape me—that these days, when I’m amped to clear my calendar and pack my bags, the purpose is not to check new, novel experiences off my list but to sit still—literally, in one room, for the better part of a week.

I can tell this shift has benefited me as both a writer and a human being. After all, if you’re truly lost, the best way to get found is to stop moving around—to stay where you are.

As vain as it might be to sit down to write before standing up to live, it can be just as foolish to run around the world as if experience were enough without the depth and expansiveness that only stillness can offer.

You can follow Jamie’s work on her website and subscribe to her Substack,

Change of Heart

where she publishes essays on changing your mind, your plans, your priorities, and of course, your heart.

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Upcoming Deadlines

Ploughshares Emerging Writer’s Contest | Submit by TODAY

Ann LaBastille Memorial Writers Residency | Apply by 5/19

Hawthornden Brooklyn Residency | Apply by 6/1

Blydyn Square Books’ First Chapter Contest | Submit by 6/1

The Master’s Review Best Emerging Writers 2025 | Submit by 6/9

Artist Trust Grants for Artist Projects | Apply by 6/23

Essential Voices Editorial Fellowship | Apply by 7/2

Events and Education Opportunities

• The American Society of Journalists and Writers is holding a webinar on What the Trump Administration Could Mean for Freelancers on May 19. Free for members, $20 for non-members.

• Reedsy is holding a 2-hour memoir writing masterclass with memoir experts Amanda Nell Edgar and Rebecca van Laer on May 22 for $49. I’ll be there!

• Join philosopher and writer

  Danielle LaSusa
  for a this free webinar, Feel Like Enough: 3 Radical Ideas for Breaking Free from the Achievement Trap on May 22.

• If you’re interested in desert ecology and conservation, don’t miss The Oregon Natural Desert Association’s free webinar on Trump’s anti-conservation agenda and “your pivotal role in pushing back against escalating efforts to roll back decades of conservation progress.” Online on May 20.

• Midwest writers! Now is the time to sign up for The Midwest Writers’ Workshop, taking place in Muncie, Indiana, July 10-12.

* This newsletter contains a couple affiliate links and if you sign up for an event, I receive a small commission—which helps me keep doing this work!

That’s all for today, friends! I’ll be back in your inbox in two weeks!

Stay inspired,

Britany