I was walking through Terminal 3 yesterday. Coming off a red-eye from Berlin, grabbing a connection to Denver. Twenty years, almost exactly. Started when I was 35, now I’m 55. Not exactly prime flying age anymore, but you take the contracts when they come. No benefits, no pension, just the hourly. Every trip is a hustle. And I just… stopped. Like right there, by those big windows looking out at the tarmac. The sun was coming up, hitting the tailfins just right. Beautiful, you know? But for the first time, I didn't feel it. Not the way I used to. It was just… another airport. Another plane. Another day turning into night and then day again. You see everything doing this job. I’ve seen the canals of Venice in winter, the markets in Marrakech, cherry blossoms in Tokyo, mountains in Chile. Done it all. Eaten incredible food, drank terrible coffee, slept in fancy hotels, slept in some really dingy ones too. I’ve said "Enjoy your flight" in a dozen languages and meant it every single time. Most of the time, anyway. But standing there, watching those planes, it hit me. Like a ton of bricks. I’ve seen the whole world. EVERYWHERE. But I haven’t really *been* anywhere. Not in the way that matters. I don't have a place. No town I go back to, no street that feels like mine. It's always a new hotel room, a new layover. I’ve got friends in every major city, but no one who really knows me. No one who's seen me through more than a few days at a time. It’s like I’m a ghost, flitting between time zones. And then the guilt kicked in. HARD. Because I CHOSE this. Every time someone would ask, "Where are you settling down?", I’d laugh it off. "The world is my home!" Ha. What a joke. I thought I was living some big, exciting life. Now I just feel… unmoored. Like a kite with a broken string, just drifting. And I don’t know how to land. Or where. I just don't know where to go from here. All this traveling, and I still feel lost.