April 10, 2025

For many, the idea of traveling nonstop for over a year with three kids might sound like a ridiculous proposition—equal parts dreamy and deranged. Think missed flight connections, lodging that looks nothing like it did on TripAdvisor, and the slow ache of being far from friends and family. And yes, all of those things have happened to us—sometimes all in the same week. But up until recently, we’ve mostly shrugged them off and gamified them into the broader adventure. Hotel shower that only spurts cold water? Roll with it.  Hotel reservation scam in Chang Mai, Thailand? Roll with it.  Kid vomits in a rideshare car in the Bali? Okay, less fun, but… still, roll with it.

What we didn’t expect was that, ten months in, our seemingly boundless wanderlust might start to feel more like wander-fatigue.

While the kids were enjoying some much-deserved screen time in our apartment in Pokhara, Nepal, Francesca and I took a walk through the hazy, honk-filled streets. Normally these debrief strolls leave us energized and plotting our next mini-expedition. But this time, we both admitted we were feeling… less than excited. Were we just tired from our underwhelming second half in Nepal? Had we hit a rut after so many months in Southeast Asia with similar scenery, smells, and menus? Or—gulp—was this something deeper? Had we reached the fabled travel wall?

It turns out, travel fatigue is a real thing. Experts say that even the most seasoned nomads aren’t immune to it. Psychologist Dr. Michael Brein, who studies the psychology of travel, describes long-term travel as “emotionally exhilarating and physically exhausting.” The constant decision-making, unfamiliar environments, and absence of routine can eventually wear down even the most adventurous souls. A 2018 survey by Booking.com found that 44% of long-term travelers reported a "burnout moment" around the 9-10 month mark.

Sound familiar?

We had hoped that heading to Latin America—new continent, new cultures, new cuisine—would jolt us back into that first-day-of-school excitement. And maybe it still will. But our arrival in Cuzco has been more of a stagger than a sprint. We’re contending with altitude, jet lag, lingering coughs, and the weird disorientation of going from curry and tuk-tuks to quinoa and alpacas in the span of 36 hours. So far, Latin America feels more mysterious than energizing.

And maybe that’s okay.

Up until now, we’ve landed in every country with a kind of buzzing anticipation. In Greece, we bounced out of the plane and into a plate of olives. In Bosnia, we were wide-eyed with curiosity. Thailand gave us mango sticky rice for breakfast and made everything seem possible. Morocco, Vietnam, Transylvania—we’ve felt thrilled, challenged, and so alive.

But 10 months in, we’re tired. We’ve been on over 60 trains, buses, planes, or ferries. We’ve packed and repacked bags hundreds of times. We’ve learned how to say “Where is the bathroom?” in eight languages. Maybe our pace has just caught up with us. Most other worldschooling families we meet stay longer in each location—settling in, building temporary communities, developing routines. We've leaned toward movement, and that has been amazing... until it wasn't.

So have we hit the wall?

Maybe. Maybe not. We’re reserving judgment. The Amazon awaits, and with it, a fresh jolt of wildness. And there’s still Ecuador, Panama, and a few months of travel left in our itinerary. But we’re also holding space for the truth that even a dream—especially a dream—can leave you winded sometimes.

Maybe the real test of a journey isn’t how far you go—but how far you’re willing to keep going, even when the thrill wears off.

And perhaps our new mantra isn’t roll with it, but “If we’ve hit a wall, we’ll sit on top of it for a while and see what the view’s like from there”.