Three months into my first year as a digital nomad, I found myself crying in a McDonald’s in Bangkok at 2 AM.

Not because of the food. Not because I was homesick. But because I had just spent another evening alone in my apartment, watching Netflix while everyone back home was living their lives seven hours behind me.

The Instagram posts never show you this part. The laptop on the beach, the co-working spaces, the “living the dream” captions—they’re all real. But so is the crushing weight of realizing that freedom and flexibility come with a price most people don’t talk about.

You’re completely, utterly alone.

And I’m not talking about the romantic kind of solitude where you discover yourself on a mountaintop. I’m talking about the kind where you haven’t had a meaningful conversation in weeks, where every friendship feels like it’s slipping away, and where you’d give anything just to grab a beer with someone who actually knows you.

Seven years in, I’ve learned that this isn’t just part of the journey—it’s the journey. And if you’re not prepared for it, it’ll destroy you.

The friends you lose along the way

Here’s what nobody tells you about leaving everything behind to work remotely: your friendships don’t just change—they die.

Not dramatically. Not with big fights or falling outs. They just… fade.

It starts innocently enough. You’re in Vietnam, they’re in your hometown. The time zones make spontaneous calls impossible. You miss their birthday dinner because you’re working. They stop inviting you to things because “you’re never around anyway.”

Before you know it, you’re watching their lives unfold through Instagram stories while you eat pho alone for the third time this week.

I remember the exact moment I realized I had become a stranger to my best friend from college. We were on a video call, and he was telling me about his promotion, his new apartment, his girlfriend. And I realized I didn’t know any of these people he was talking about. I had become a tourist in his life.

The worst part? I couldn’t even be mad about it. How do you maintain deep friendships when you’re constantly moving, when you’re never present for the small moments that actually matter?

You don’t. You just accept that the price of this lifestyle is watching your old life disappear in the rearview mirror.

The surface-level connections that never go deeper

“Oh, you’re a digital nomad too? That’s awesome! We should totally hang out.”

I’ve had this conversation probably a hundred times across different cities. And maybe five of those conversations turned into actual friendships.

The nomad community talks a lot about connection, about finding your tribe, about the amazing people you’ll meet. What they don’t mention is how exhausting it is to constantly be the new person, to always be starting from scratch.

Think about your closest friends back home. How long did it take to build that trust? To move beyond small talk about what you do for work and where you’re from? To reach the point where you could call them at 3 AM when you’re having a breakdown?

Now imagine doing that over and over again, every few months, in a new city, with people who are also just passing through.

Most nomad friendships exist in this weird liminal space where you’re close enough to grab dinner and complain about the Wi-Fi, but not close enough to really be there for each other when stuff hits the fan.

I’ve been to goodbye parties for people I genuinely liked but barely knew. I’ve exchanged numbers with dozens of people I’ll probably never see again. And I’ve realized that temporary connections, no matter how frequent, can’t fill the void left by deep, lasting relationships.

Why working alone hits different when you’re already isolated

The remote work dream sells itself on flexibility and freedom. Work from anywhere, set your own schedule, be your own boss. What it doesn’t mention is that “anywhere” often means “alone.”

Back home, even if you hated your job, you had colleagues. People to complain about the boss with. Someone to grab lunch with. Built-in social interaction that you probably took for granted.

As a nomad, your office is your laptop screen. Your colleagues are Slack notifications. Your lunch break is eating street food while scrolling through your phone.

I’ve mentioned this before but the isolation of remote work gets amplified when you’re also geographically isolated from everyone you know. There’s no happy hour with coworkers to look forward to. No office birthday parties. No random conversations by the water cooler.

Your entire social life becomes intentional. You have to actively seek out every human interaction, and when you’re already exhausted from work, that feels impossible.

I spent months in Bali barely speaking to anyone except coffee shop baristas and Grab drivers. Not because I didn’t want to be social, but because the mental energy required to constantly put yourself out there is enormous.

And when your work is already demanding, when you’re dealing with client deadlines and difficult projects, adding “find friends” to your to-do list feels like another job you can’t afford to suck at.

The turning point that changed everything

The breakdown in Bangkok wasn’t rock bottom—it was a wake-up call.

Sitting in that McDonald’s, scrolling through photos of my friends’ lives, I realized I had been approaching this whole thing wrong. I had been treating loneliness like a problem to solve instead of a reality to accept.

That night, I made a decision that changed everything: I stopped running from the isolation and started learning to be alone.

Not just physically alone—I’d been doing that for months. But actually comfortable with my own company. Actually enjoying the solitude instead of desperately trying to fill it.

I started taking myself on dates. Real dates. I’d dress up, go to a nice restaurant, order wine, bring a book. I’d explore museums and markets and temples not because I was killing time, but because I was genuinely curious.

I began treating my alone time as a feature, not a bug. Instead of seeing every solo meal as a reminder of what I was missing, I started appreciating the freedom to eat wherever I wanted, whenever I wanted, without compromise.

The loneliness didn’t disappear overnight. But it stopped being this overwhelming force that made every day feel like a struggle.

Building a life that works with isolation, not against it

The mistake I made—and that most new nomads make—is trying to replicate the social life you had back home. You can’t. The sooner you accept that, the sooner you can start building something that actually works.

Here’s what I learned: sustainable nomad life isn’t about constantly meeting new people or staying busy enough to avoid the silence. It’s about creating routines and rhythms that make you feel grounded, even when everything around you is temporary.

I started working out regularly, not just for fitness but for the routine. I found coffee shops where I became a regular, where the baristas knew my order. I picked up hobbies that I could do alone—photography, writing, reading—that made me feel productive and engaged.

I also got realistic about friendship. Instead of expecting to build deep connections everywhere I went, I focused on maintaining the relationships that actually mattered. I scheduled regular video calls with friends back home. I sent thoughtful messages instead of waiting for them to reach out first.

And I stopped feeling guilty about enjoying my own company. Some of my best memories from the past few years are solo experiences—watching the sunrise from a temple in Kyoto, getting lost in the backstreets of Hanoi, having deep conversations with strangers in coffee shops.

The loneliness is still there. It probably always will be. But it’s no longer the defining feature of this lifestyle. It’s just one part of a life that’s complicated and beautiful and exactly what I chose.

What I wish someone had told me at the beginning

If you’re thinking about becoming a nomad, or if you’re already on the road and struggling with isolation, here’s what I want you to know:

The loneliness is normal. It’s not a sign that you’re doing something wrong or that this lifestyle isn’t for you. It’s the price of admission, and everyone pays it differently.

You don’t have to be constantly social to be happy. Some of the most fulfilling periods of my nomad life have been the quietest ones. Learn to appreciate your own company, and everything else becomes easier.

Your old friendships will change, but they don’t have to end. The friends who matter will adapt to your lifestyle. The ones who don’t weren’t as close as you thought they were.

And finally: it gets easier. Not because you meet more people or because the isolation disappears, but because you learn to carry yourself differently. You become someone who can be alone without being lonely.

The life you’re building might not look like what you imagined, but that doesn’t make it less valuable. Sometimes the best adventures happen when you’re brave enough to take them alone.