On depression and escapism

wherever you go, there you are

Depression is such a hard thing to write about. When you’re in it, there’s no real way to describe it. You can throw around some analogies, but it’s different for everyone. The best way I can explain it is to compare it to chronic pain. Say your back hurts really bad—you pulled a muscle or something. It’s all you can think about. It consumes you. You have to adjust your whole life around it. You need more sleep, you force a smile through the pain, work your shit job through the pain, maybe you stop going out, and you start to believe the pain will never go away. That you’ll be stuck like this forever.

But when you’re finally back to normal, the time between suffering and healing is so minute that you hardly notice you were ever on your ass recovering. You forget about all the pain and you move forward. It’s a little like that. But also, not.

Because for some of us, depression doesn’t just come and go. It sticks around way longer than it’s welcome. It can hit in cycles out of nowhere. It can be chronic. It can be situational, tied to your environment. Or it can show up after something traumatic, like a sexual assault or the death of someone you love. Or, if you’re really lucky, you get the full collection (like me)!

When I was about 12, little Taylor was sad and scared. She used to sneak into her mom’s room to sleep on the floor in the middle of the night. She stopped smiling, stopped laughing, stopped hanging out with friends. She felt everything and nothing all at once. That’s when the therapy started, and the rotation of Prozac, Zoloft, Paxil, you name it. They mostly just numbed me and I went on with life. Eventually, I was diagnosed with PTSD, depression, and generalized anxiety disorder.

It wasn’t until my late twenties that I started to connect the dots. Yes, my parents were addicts and my childhood was more chaotic than most, but something else had happened too—something I had completely blocked out. A night at my older cousin’s house, unaccompanied by adults. I didn’t remember the details, but my body did. The trauma showed up later, in all kinds of ways: autoimmune issues, a deep distrust of people, a general distaste for life. And this isn’t uncommon. Studies show those with childhood trauma are more likely to develop things like lupus, cancer, and other stress-related illnesses (and often die sooner).

Okay, wow. What a depressing post. But hang in there… I’m also trying to make it *inspirational*

Depression is often made up of all the shit we don’t process. It festers. It builds up. It’s regret. Self-hate. Stuff we’d never say out loud. And it sits in our bodies like poison.

Throughout my recovery, I’ve spent nights so disgusted with myself that I couldn’t even look at myself in the mirror. I’ve ruined relationships by being sick and cruel and unable to regulate. I’ve starved myself, hated myself, abused my body with drugs, alcohol, “love,” sex. I’ve thought about stepping in front of a train while on a three-month-long waitlist to see a psychiatrist. I’ve imagined turning the wheel just slightly left while driving over an overpass. I’ve rotted in bed longer than most people will in three lifetimes—my sister showering me and brushing the knots out of my hair, my partner spoon-feeding me, my whole life slipping away.

But still, I always reemerge. And when I do, I’m stunned by the beauty of this world. The love in my life. Just grateful to be alive. And sometimes, that little bit of gratitude is all that kept me going—my friends, my partner, my family, and this tiny sliver of something better ahead.

I’ve collected so many tools over the years: yoga, gratitude, journaling. Lexapro (dear god, Lexapro). Therapy. Dancing in my room to music like a coked-out lunatic. Getting a dog who loves me unconditionally and forces me out of bed every day. Getting curious and excited about life again. Letting myself feel instead of fighting the feelings. Reminding myself that every depressive episode is only temporary. Forgiving others. Forgiving myself. Not giving as much of a fuck about everything. Saying what I feel instead of bottling it up.

And then there’s escapism.

Yep. Escapism is actually just another trauma response.

Which tracks, because travel is my favorite therapy. Sometimes when I’m feeling low, I’ll spend hours on Airbnb, plotting future trips. It’s like a dopamine hit, but one that doesn’t hurt anyone. If anything, it’s saved me.

Because when you travel, you’re reminded that your tiny little world isn’t everything. Some people find that thought terrifying, but I find it really freeing. I like feeling small in a big universe—to remind myself that there is so much more out there and to stare it in the face. It gives me perspective. I crave novelty, I must keep my life in motion, or else I could sink in suburbia. I don’t think I was built for this capitalist system. I’m meant to be bathing in a river, hang-drying my clothes, tending to a garden in the sun. This system is too much. For me, and for so many of us.

Travel has given me a little taste of the simple life. And you could absolutely call me privileged, but I also make travel a priority. It’s my top priority in life, actually, because it fundamentally changes something inside me. I will (and have) spent all of my money on it. And it’s addicting, yes, but it’s also a positive thing, I think, to learn about a world that is not yours. And if you’re able to meet people along the way who feel like you and think like you, it’s such a beautiful, magical thing.

I collect people like souvenirs. And the more I do this, the more excited I am about life and the overall human experience. There’s nothing like crying with a stranger from Amsterdam on a balcony over a cigarette, only for them to become a cherished person in your life. Someone you share postcards with and drunk WhatsApp messages with. People who become interested in your life from all over the world and inspire you to keep your story going.

Of course, it’s not all romantic. I never understood the phrase “wherever you go, there you are” until I was in Italy for film school. Before I started traveling, I was serving tables at a pizza restaurant when I found out that Anthony Bourdain had killed himself. It was all over the TVs, and I immediately stopped whatever I was doing—had a visceral reaction to it. I thought, this guy who has the seemingly perfect life (my dream job), who gets to travel the whole world, killed himself. If he did that, then what the fuck was I going on for? I didn’t yet understand that your depression follows you, whether you’re on a beach in Thailand or in a shoebox apartment in California.

Right before I left for Italy, I was having daily panic attacks and wanted to cancel my trip. I laid in bed with my partner the night before my flight, and after throwing up for hours, I said, “I’m not going.” And he said something very wise: “See how you feel in the morning after sleep.” And so I went, with a newly prescribed bottle of Lexapro jingling in my backpack.

I would be there for three months—as long as it would take for the medication to fully kick in. I didn’t venture far the first few weeks, which was even more depressing because I was in ITALY. I forced myself to go grocery shopping and to say things like “Buongiorno” and “Come stai” to strangers who looked at me for too long. My favorite phrase became “Un espresso per favore” because I was so lethargic those first couple of weeks. I dragged myself to class, barely saying a word to my classmates, then would grab a pizza on the way home and watch really bad reality TV like Love on the Spectrum. Every morning, I’d wake up to my neighbors (very thin walls in Italy) listening to an Italian game show, the theme song sometimes getting stuck in my head throughout the day.

I started hanging out with a loud American in class who I didn’t really get along with, but it was good for me. I’d force myself out of my apartment every day, wandering around Rome, staring at ancient structures as if they could whisper wisdom to me, reminding myself that I could do hard, uncomfortable things and come out on the other side okay. I took it one day at a time, until I was hanging out with people more suited to me, drinking spritzes on patios and going on late-night adventures to Trastevere clubs. I was taking trips to the cinema to watch movies like Triangle of Sadness and Babylon with subtitles. I was writing scripts and making films. I started to have fun. I started to fall in love with the city and my life. Maybe the meds were kicking in. Maybe I was just living. Maybe it was both. But I was very glad I got on that flight, and very proud of dragging myself out of the muck.

I had a surreal moment leaving class one night, walking back to my apartment. The city was glowing and I had a sort of pep in my step. I took a long inhale of air, filled up my lungs, and thought… this is my life. I’m traveling as a writer and making art. How wonderful.

So yes—wherever you go, there you are. But one thing about travel is, it changes you, and you’ll never return quite the same version of yourself.

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PSA – If you're ever not well, like really deep in the shit, keep going. Keep going. Keep going. You never know what awaits you on the other side, and you never really know how many people are rooting for you. Your life is so fucking precious.

K, love you, bye.

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Freelancing tip:

For us anxious/depressives, imposter syndrome is very real. When we get an assignment, we often overthink it to death and end up sabotaging ourselves. Don’t do that. You got the assignment because you’re a good writer—so be a good writer. Write the hell out of it and move on to the next thing. It doesn’t have to be perfect, just good enough.

Also, I realize my freelancing tips are kind of chaotic and I should probably organize them better haha. But honestly, I’m just using this space to write whatever I feel like and to share travel writing jobs. So if you’re really curious about freelancing and want to travel the world, I do offer mentoring. Get in touch.

Travel writing jobs/ calls for pitches:

• Travel Expert – Flash Pack (Remote, US West Coast preferred)
  Flash Pack is hiring a well-traveled expert who’s equally enthusiastic about exploring the world and delivering exceptional customer service.
  📍 Fully remote (preferably based on the U.S. West Coast for time zone alignment)
  🔗 Apply here

• Freelance Pitches – Late Checkout
  Late Checkout is building out its June content calendar and looking for fresh, timely pitches that match their voice and editorial style.
  ✏️ Be sure to read the pitch guidelines before submitting: 👉 Pitch Guidelines
  🔗 Call for Pitches on LinkedIn

• Freelance Travel Writers – Skyscanner (US, Canada, Brazil, Mexico)
  Skyscanner is seeking experienced SEO-focused travel writers based in the U.S., Canada, Brazil, or Mexico.
  🌍 Ideal candidates are native to the market they’re writing for, fluent in the local language, and full of insider travel insight.
  💡 Bonus if you’re familiar with Contentful or similar CMS platforms.

  Looking for writers who can:
  • Craft engaging, search-optimized content
  • Apply SEO best practices (keyword integration, structure, etc.)
  • Localize editorial briefs with cultural nuance
  • Share a strong portfolio of travel/lifestyle content

  🔗 More details & how to apply

• State-Based Freelance Writers – Fodor’s Travel: Bucket List USA
  Fodor’s is hiring local experts to contribute to the next edition of their Bucket List USA guidebook. They’re especially looking for writers who currently live in or have lived in the following states:

  Alabama, Arkansas, Arizona, Delaware, Illinois, Kentucky, Minnesota, Mississippi, Oklahoma, West Virginia

  📬 To apply, email Amanda Sadlowski at asadlowski@fodors.com or message her on LinkedIn.
  🔗 Job post on LinkedIn