In Transit: Part 02
The Leap Before the Logic
It’s 5 AM at LAX, and I’m holding a boarding pass to London with everything I own crammed into two suitcases. The terminal is quiet, just the hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional announcement. I film a quick video on my phone, trying to capture this moment that feels too big to process alone.
“This chapter in my life is probably gonna be the most exhilarating,” I hear myself say, voice shaky with excitement and exhaustion. “I don’t even know where to start.”
That phrase plays on repeat as I board the JetBlue flight: I don’t even know where to start. Most people make big life changes with vision boards and five-year plans. I was starting a global adventure with nothing but a boarding pass and a hunch.
London was my first stop. Officially, I had a work event there. Unofficially, I was chasing a different kind of unknown. London felt safe enough not to drown, foreign enough that I’d have to become someone new just to navigate it. And becoming someone new felt necessary, because the version of me in LA had gotten far too comfortable with avoiding decisions.
My parents asked the same question on every call: “Are you sure about this?” The answer was no. But I was beginning to realise that certainty isn’t required to make the right choice.
So what does “avoiding decisions” look like? For me, it looked like music.
I moved to LA to pursue it, spent years as a starving artist, but over time the dream became a should more than a want. Music and I had been in a career situationship for years: never fully committed, never fully done.
The breaking point came when my music partner dropped me at LAX before a trip. We’d been arguing about effort, priorities, and about songs that never quite felt like me. “You just don’t want it enough,” he snapped.
The words stung because they felt close to true. In LA I had the luxury of wallowing, of putting off big choices because tomorrow always offered another chance. But what happens when tomorrow is a flight away?
Travel doesn’t wait for your indecision. Miss your train by overthinking, and it leaves without you. On the road I learned to trust my gut and ask, does this choice feel like peace or create tension?
During my time in Japan, I had to plan a last-minute trip with a group. One friend was running late for the train and we had seconds to decide: wait and risk missing it, or leave him behind. So in the heat of the moment, we decided to tuck his ticket into a 7-Eleven windowsill, film a quick video of the hiding spot, and boarded. Somehow he found it, caught the next train, and met us hours later. Not perfect, but it worked.
Moments like this trained me to act fast. It was intoxicating, this newfound decisiveness. But before I knew it, I’d swung too far the other way.
On a different trip to Egypt, our group couldn’t decide between a festival in Saudi Arabia or a weekend in Petra. Old me would’ve researched endlessly, but the new me said, why not both? The itinerary was insane: late-night festival, 2 AM airport dash, sunrise flight to Jordan, whirlwind through Amman, Dead Sea, Petra, and finally a ferry back to Egypt. We maximised every second. It was exhilarating, but completely unsustainable and I realised the girl who once froze with indecision had now become someone who couldn’t sit still at all.
Which brings me back to London.
The real lesson wasn’t just to leap before logic — it was to know when to leap, and when to pause. Quick decisions saved me from paralysis, but slowness has its own kind of courage.
Now I like to practice what I call discerning speed. Sometimes I say no to the spontaneous date because I want to protect the routine that keeps me grounded and sometimes I stay in on a Saturday instead of running out to see it all.
For someone who once optimised every second across continents, choosing rest feels radical. It completes a circle that began at 5 AM in LAX — from not knowing where to start, to moving too fast to stop, to finally choosing my own pace.
Learning when to leap isn’t just about dramatic moves. It’s a daily practice of trusting yourself to know which speed serves you. Sometimes you stick a train ticket in a windowsill and hope for the best. Sometimes you stay home and let the city exist without you for a day.
Both are acts of courage. Both require trusting that you know yourself, even when you still don’t know where to start.
This is Part Two of “In Transit,” a monthly blog series about the messy, philosophical side of digital nomad life in your late twenties. Last month, we talked about running away versus running toward and this month was about the art of decision-making when nothing is certain.
What’s your relationship with uncertainty? Do you over-research or leap too quickly? Reply and let us know — we’d love to hear how these themes show up in your life.
See you next month for Part Three.
Gigi
