I have a distinct flashback of life in my twenties that keeps recurring. It’s amusing to think that such a random and — at the time — inconsequential moment managed to find a permanent home in the desktop folder of my brain. But I remember that unsuspecting moment for a reason: It contains a snapshot of the feelings that have formed my ever-evolving philosophy toward work and travel, which in a way translates to life in general.

In this memory, I was leaving my small cubicle in the San Diego office where I worked for several years. I was packing my bag, probably wearing a thin layer of salt from my habitual morning surf, punching in the security code to close the office. Technically, arming the security system at the end of the day was anyone’s job, but, more times than not, I assumed the task. I often ended up being the last to leave the office, perhaps partially due to the particularly demanding nature of my job and partially due to the darker, unhealthy side of an overly conscientious work ethic unable to accept mediocrity. Just like I’ve always woken up at the crack of dawn for as long as I can remember, I’ve always been painstakingly dedicated to my tasks, whatever they may be. In third grade, I skipped a week-long trip to Yosemite with my family because I didn’t want to get behind on my homework. I can’t believe my parents let me go through with that choice. I digress.

On this particular day, I was walking to the small machine installed on the wall to set the security code. The lights were off. It must have been summertime because the sun was still shining outside. In the wintertime, it would have already been dark at this hour. Before I hit the buttons, I was drenched by a feeling that can best be described as a downpour of repetition and deja vu, like I had done this exact routine dozens, hundreds, or thousands of times before. And that’s true. That was my routine: unpacking my bag, answering an absurd amount of emails, attending meetings, eating my packed lunch, placing phone calls, re-packing my bag, entering the code into the security system, and heading home, where I would often need to nap from utter mental and physical exhaustion.

The feeling of monotony that day in the office caused me to ask myself the classic approaching thirty, existential question: “What am I doing with my life?” And not in a bad way — I understand that not every day at work isn’t going to be Disneyland levels of fun — but more in an opportunity-cost way. Living in San Diego, answering emails, waiting for my monthly paycheck, making car and student loan payments, spending time with my friends and girlfriend — it was all pleasant. But what was I not doing?

Since I was 17 years old I knew my dream was to travel the world, live abroad, and learn more languages. I lived in Chile for a year when I was 21/22. I achieved my dreams. Yay! But instead of feeling like my mission was accomplished, it stoked the fire even more. Then, five, six years later, when I was punching in that security code, that fire was sputtering to its coals, but still burning hot enough to be salvaged.

The aforementioned uber-conscientious part of my brain doesn’t let me dream big and ignore it. It’s a blessing and a curse. I take methodical steps to make these dreams happen, or at the very least give them a chance. So fast forward several years and here I am sitting at my desk in California again. During the time that has elapsed since that day in the office, I saved some money, reluctantly left that job, moved to Brazil, traveled to 17 countries, mustered a passable income from online work, and learned two languages. But now, I can’t help but notice how that feeling telling me to “make the most” of my life asap is actually more like a spectrum with two extremes, swinging back and forth on a pendulum. If one side says I need to make the most of my youth and prioritize experiences, the other side tells me that I’m getting old and it’s time to focus on making adult money and picking a place to settle down.

I can convince myself of the merits of either extreme when the pendulum is swinging: the age-old question in my head of “to travel, or not to travel?” Deep down I know the correct answer, at least right now, is to travel. But I also am aware that someday the pendulum will swing the other way for good and my months-long adventures will turn into 10 days of PTO and a new code to punch into an office security system. Nothing wrong with it.

But I’ve also discovered a way to listen to both extremes. In a way, I am having my cake and eating it too. I’ve found a balance, at least as much of a balance as exists in the freelance writer world. I work plenty, enough to fund the travels while still enjoying them, but I hardly make enough to live on my own (with dignity) in California. Thus I enter the paradox of continuing to be a starving writer with a wallet full of experiences, cultures, and languages (some pretty damn good surfing, too), or I go surrender myself to the tantalizing six-figure LinkedIn job postings that would create a reality in which I don’t have to count pennies every time I need a new wetsuit or surfboard. This is the puzzle that keeps the gears spinning in my brain nowadays.

Throughout this journey, I’ve returned home three times now. It’s good to be home. I’ve been jonesing to roam the majestic nature of the Sierra Nevada again, catch up with friends and family (I am an uncle now), and recharge the batteries, which admittedly do get very depleted when living out of a backpack and not being able to drink the tap water for months and months on end. Even after a month or so back in the States, I can feel the pendulum starting to swing back the other way, creating an imbalance that will surely push me to the point where another trip to god knows where will be purchased with my small fortune of air miles. Sooner or later that moment will come. I’ll know when it’s time.