When I first told friends I was quitting my marketing job to work from a hammock in Southeast Asia, they asked the same question: How can you afford it?

Seven years later, I’m the one asking how I ever afforded the old life.

Back in New York, my paycheck looked healthy on paper, yet the balance in my checking account never moved. Rent, train passes, lunches “grabbed” because I was too wiped to cook — they all conspired to make sure payday evaporated faster than the Manhattan humidity in August.

Going nomad flipped that script.

Below is exactly where the savings came from and why the lifestyle isn’t just cheaper—it’s a built‑in defense against lifestyle inflation.

Where the money leaks at home

Office life is expensive by design.

You live near HQ (higher rents), commute daily (transport fees), dress the part (dry‑cleaning bills), and keep social appearances (after‑work drinks that feel mandatory).

None of those costs help you grow or feel happier; they’re the entry fee for a job you might not love in a city you can’t afford.

Once I added up everything tied to showing up — not actually doing the work — I realized nearly 40% of my wages went to staying employable in that particular zip code. Ouch.

Nomad math: how expenses shrink on the road

Remove geography from the employment equation and costs behave differently. Instead of a single budget‑busting metropolis, you get a dynamite combo:

• Geo‑arbitrage. Earning dollars (or euros) while spending dong, rupiah, or baht stretches income like taffy.

• Pay‑as‑you‑go housing. Short stays and monthly deals beat annual leases with punitive break clauses.

• Experience over stuff. Pack everything you own into one backpack and Amazon’s “Buy Now” button loses its hypnotic glow.

I track every cent with a simple spreadsheet: one column for the full‑time office life, one for wherever I land that month. The deltas still make me laugh.

Housing: the biggest line item you can hack

In Brooklyn, I paid $1,850 for a room so small I could open the fridge from my bed.

My first stop after leaving?

Da Nang, Vietnam.

#Beachviews, lightning‑fast fiber, and a private studio set me back $380 a month — Wi‑Fi and weekly cleaning included.

Bali was pricier at $650, but that covered a villa, pool, and scooter. In Chiang  Mai, I split a two‑bedroom apartment with a fellow designer; my cut was $300. Even Tokyo, the “expensive” outlier, costs $1,100 — still several hundred less than New York.

When accommodation drops that hard, everything downstream — utilities, repairs, random IKEA hauls—drops too.

Eating like a local rather than a tourist

If you travel like you’re on vacation, your wallet will revolt. The trick is to embrace local rhythms:

• Morning bánh mì and cà phê sữa đá in Vietnam? $1.25.

• A heaping plate of nasi campur in Ubud? Under $2.

• Thai khao soi that makes life worth living? $1.75.

Cooking occasionally keeps nutrition in check, but street food demolishes the “Eating out is a luxury” narrative I swallowed for years.

Monthly grocery‑plus‑restaurant spend is now $180 on average — less than my old Seamless tab alone.

Transport costs that disappear

Remember the annual metro pass, the car insurance, and the Monday‑morning Uber surge?

Gone.

I walk, bike, or rent a scooter for six bucks a day. Long‑haul flights look scary until you realize they replace twelve months of commuting. Fly slow, stay longer, and a round‑trip ticket becomes a rounding error.

Quick example: my subway + occasional rideshare habit used to cost $275 per month.

Today, my average transportation spend — including flights averaged out over the year—hovers around $150.

Taxes and insurance: the hidden upside

Here’s a curveball: because I’m legally a U.S. citizen living abroad more than 330 days a year, I qualify for the Foreign Earned Income Exclusion.

Translation?

Roughly the first $120k of income isn’t subject to federal tax. (Talk to a professional—seriously—but know the option exists.)

Health insurance looks different, too. I carry global coverage for $95 a month, catastrophic only, and pay cash for day‑to‑day care. A dental cleaning in Ho Chi Minh City set me back $23.

Stateside? Triple digits with insurance.

Lifestyle inflation vs lifestyle design

When your friend group upgrades condos, you start browsing Zillow.

When colleagues unbox the latest phone, yours suddenly feels prehistoric. That’s lifestyle inflation, and it thrives in stable environments.

On the road, context shifts before comparison can take root. Nobody cares what year your MacBook is when sunset over the Mekong is splashing gold on the water. You trade prestige purchases for real experiences — cooking classes in Hoi  An, Muay Thai boot camps in Chiang Mai, and midnight ramen runs in Shibuya.

I’ve mentioned this before, but the fastest way to derail your finances is by trying to look successful instead of being successful.

The mindset shift that keeps the savings rolling

At home, I saved whatever dripped through the cracks of my spending. Now I treat saving like a bill that’s due on the first of every month.

A minimum of 30% of income auto‑transfers to investment accounts before I touch what’s left. Because my cost base is lean, the percentage feels painless.

The nomad mindset also prizes learning: new languages, new skills, and new side hustles. That growth compounds just like money.

Last year, consulting gigs covered every living expense — writing income went straight into index funds. Freedom funding freedom—my favorite flywheel.

Your turn

Could you slash costs without crossing an ocean? Absolutely. But distance makes habits easier to break and opportunities easier to spot.

So ask yourself:

• What show‑up expenses are draining your paycheck?

• If location were flexible, where would your money—and energy—go instead?

• Are you spending to impress people you actually admire?

You don’t need to board the next flight to Bali (though the airport noodles are pretty good). Start by auditing one category — housing, food, transport — and test a cheaper alternative for a month. See how it feels. See what it frees.

Savings aren’t about deprivation; they’re about choices. I chose a life with fewer fixed costs and more sunsets. My bank balance isn’t the only thing that’s grown, but it’s the easiest to measure—and the easiest myth to bust when someone says, “Nomads must be rich to travel that much.”

Spoiler: most of us just stopped paying for things we never wanted in the first place.