Three Months into 2026: Of Anchors and Horizons

I am sitting in a quiet coffee shop in Hualien, Taiwan, watching the world move at a pace that feels almost hushed. We have never been to Taiwan before, and I find myself wanting to capture all the shapes and shades of this "new." But as I sit here, my mind drifts to the "old"—to the paths we’ve walked, the doors we’ve closed, and the bittersweet rhythm of a life lived out of a suitcase.

The Sweet Return to Hoi An

In January, we departed from Croatia, stepping firmly into our third year of full-time nomadic life. It was a departure marked by that familiar ache: the bittersweet necessity of leaving something known to embrace the waiting unknown. We were heading toward a place that holds a permanent reservation in our hearts: Hoi An.

Two years ago, we left Vietnam feeling unfinished. Back then, the struggle of adapting was raw; the transition felt jagged. We promised ourselves we would return, and finally, we did. Landing in the heart of the city felt like slipping into a favorite coat—one that allows you to unfold into yourself almost instantly.

Within days, our rhythms were humming. The buzz of the scooters, the scent of the morning market, the reliable heat of the gym, and the grounding practice of the yoga sessions I hosted. Hoi An is a city of "easy." It offers a seamless blend of beach stillness and city business. Leaving it a second time was no easier than the first, but I left with a quiet peace, knowing that some places aren’t just destinations—they are chapters we can revisit whenever the ink runs dry.

The Grey Shades of Taiwan

And now, the contrast. We arrived in Taiwan via the neon pulse of Hong Kong and the vertical ambition of Taipei.

If Hoi An is gold and turquoise, Taiwan—at least for now—is a study in grey. Taipei was modern and convenient, yet I found myself standing in the middle of its efficiency feeling... untethered. It is a country that demands more effort. From the beautiful but impenetrable Chinese characters to the hunt for familiar comforts, everything requires a bit more "work."

Hualien, where we sit now, feels like a ghost place. Perhaps it is the lingering shadow of the 2024 earthquake, or perhaps it is simply the off-season sigh of a coastal town. As Europeans, we often travel to escape the grey, the cold, and the rain, yet here I am, surrounded by all three.

Yet, there is beauty in the dim light. There is a near-empty gym where we move our bodies every morning. There are the coffee shops that open early enough to catch the first thoughts of the day. And then there is the nature—lush, defiant, and green—waiting behind the mist.

The Introvert’s Community

Our current co-living situation is a paradox. On one hand, it is a gift; the kids have a tribe, and I have a kitchen that feels like a home. On the other hand, the sheer volume of "people" is a constant tide.

I find myself dwelling on that old, recurring question: Why do I seek community so fiercely when my soul craves solitude? It is a constant battle to navigate my introverted nature against the need for connection. I am learning to balance the needs of five different souls—from the total extrovert to my own desperate need for "less."

The Final Let Go: Denmark

In the midst of this transition between countries, we did something monumental, yet strangely quiet: We sold our house in Denmark.

To those who have followed our story, that house wasn't just bricks and mortar. It was the place where our children grew—some were even born there, right in the middle of the kitchen floor. It was our financial foundation, our safety net, and the "second chance" we gave ourselves to see if a traditional life in Denmark was truly what we wanted.

Two times we left that house, and now, one final let go.

In the eyes of the world, selling a home is a massive anchor being hauled up. For us, it never felt like an anchor to a meaningful existence, but it was a profound journey of birthing and rebirthing. It was a vessel that served its purpose until the wind caught our sails for good.

The Unwritten Path

So, what is next?

In truth, nothing has changed, and yet everything has. Our present remains a collection of "ifs" and very few "for sures." We have three children who are being forged into humans by the very uncertainty of our path.