Jess Thoughts

Going to to Pleasant Prairie, Wisconsin.

Tonight I am writing from a hotel room that smells faintly of detergent and air-conditioning, the kind of place designed so that nothing about it lingers in your memory. Tomorrow begins training in Pleasant Prairie. It feels strange to be sent somewhere by a job — official, adult, structured — when for most of my life travel meant simply packing a bag because my family was moving again.

I love traveling, but not the rushed kind with boarding groups and gate changes flashing on screens. I love the kind where you arrive slowly and notice things: the smell of bread in the morning, how people walk, how they greet each other, what they worry about and what they don’t. When I was younger we lived in Texas, Argentina, Costa Rica, Peru, Japan, Germany, and Botswana. We passed through other places too. Sometimes I forget that not everyone grows up this way. To me it felt normal to have friends on different continents and to measure time by airports.

Living in so many places makes it hard to believe any one culture has everything figured out. Everywhere thinks their way is best. In the West we say we have the best life because we have more things — more convenience, more technology, more options. But I’ve also noticed we have more debt, more rushing, more anxiety. People schedule their happiness as if it were another appointment. We carry stress like it’s proof we matter.

I don’t want to live like that. I like the slower way of living, even if it makes me seem out of step. I am not interested in keeping up with anyone’s expectations or chasing a life just because it looks impressive from the outside. I keep up with me. My family is central, not an accessory to a career. And no, I don’t want a “hunter” to take care of me. I can earn my way. I always have. Independence feels lighter than dependence, even when it’s harder.

Some of my favorite memories are simple ones that would mean nothing to anyone else. Watching the sunrise in Japan, quiet and pale, the light spreading across rooftops while the city woke gently. Watching the sun sink behind mountains in Peru, the sky turning copper and purple in a way that made everything feel ancient. Wandering through a market in Botswana on what was technically my “first” date with a local boy who was shy and kind and determined to show me the best stalls. We are still friends, which feels like a small miracle of time and distance.

Airports are strange because they contain all those versions of life at once — people leaving, people returning, people starting over, people escaping, people going home. Today I watched families huddled together around charging stations, business travelers pacing while speaking into headsets, children spinning in circles because they don’t yet understand boredom. No one looks at each other for long, but everyone is part of the same temporary story.

Maybe that is why I like traveling for work more than I expected. It gives me permission to step outside routine and remember that the world is larger than whatever worries felt important yesterday. Even a short trip resets something inside me. It reminds me that there are countless ways to live a life, and none of them are entirely right or wrong — only more or less aligned with who you are.

I don’t know what Pleasant Prairie will be like. Maybe ordinary. Maybe forgettable. But even ordinary places have people, and people always have stories. For now I am going to close the curtains, set two alarms just in case, and try to sleep in this anonymous little room. Tomorrow I will wake up somewhere that isn’t home, which somehow makes me feel both small and expansive at the same time.

Travel has always done that to me.