Is The “Simple Life” Just A Construct of Colonialism?

In Bogota, I found myself just as entranced by this idea of the “simple life” as I was in Guatemala. This idea isn’t just limited to Latin America for me, I find it all over the world, even just two hours away from me in rural East Texas, at my grandparents’ quiet farm in Como, or the tranquil streets of Jefferson—my first solo trip. I have found that amidst the throes of my alienating job at my law firm trudging away at cases I perceive don’t move the dial making a difference in anyone’s lives but those with money, even mine, and amid the hustle-bustle of Dallas, faced with constant extreme wealth and rampant drunkenness and escapism, I crave a simple life, one I perceive is built on community, not capitalism, one that values slowness and intentionality, one that places worth on human life and dignity—not the dollar. But that, I have realized, is a privilege.

            I spoke to taxi drivers, chefs, and common people in Bogota. Humanitarians, nonprofit workers, translators, people in rural villages, craftsmen—in Guatemala. In Morocco I spoke to men who owned shops, salesmen and tradesmen in one, family men who lived in the mountains and commuted for the week, maybe two weeks at a time, to sell to tourists before going home. All gave me their unwavering kindness and generous hospitality, language lessons and ample peeks into their worlds. They didn’t sugarcoat the realities they lived in and participated in an equal exchange of information. This is the cultural exchange I love, the beautiful trade of a way of life. Through each conversation, as I sought what I perceived as the simple life, and indeed it was, a life centered on the human experience, a life centered on God, people, humanitarian aid, dignity, I realized that I have the ability to participate in such a life with more unfettered opportunity than they do. My “simple life”, my move to Guatemala, my investment in humanity, in family, in putting down my phone and sitting around a campfire or sharing a pot of tea, is more comfortable. I have a currency that goes further. I have a passport that is stronger. I have a job that pays more—I sit behind a desk rather than work with my hands—while I come home tired in my mind, some of my Colombian counterparts come home tired in their bodies as well. Even back home, the farm my grandparents grew up on was an impoverished farm. My grandpa did not have running water until he was in high school—until the mid-1960’s—and by then he was about to get married to my grandma. Their “simple life” was built on generational back-breaking labor of which they are just now reaping the benefits. So, while I galivant across the world, seeking my fortune, looking for a better life for myself, looking for something, for lack of a better term, “simpler”, what the fuck am I doing? Is seeking a simpler life just something rooted in colonialism, something rooted in white privilege and ignorance? Or is there a middle path, one where I can acknowledge my privilege and still forge my own way into this world, with sensitivity to the strife that its people have had to endure at the hands of my people?

            Perhaps there is a middle path, but I am not sure I see one yet. Maybe that is something I have to create for myself. You see, these days, all I see are “expats”. “Digital nomads”.  People who leave the United States with United States money and travel to countries in the Global South to work remote from a laptop and stay on Lake Atitlan without learning the language or without learning any history or cultural sensitivity and stay for several months before moving on, driving up rent prices for locals with their Airbnb usage and leaving a giant white footprint as evidence that they were there. And when they are gone, another will replace them. Many don’t obtain long-term visas or local jobs (that would require learning the language and culture)—they simply stay as long as is legal, or even overstay, and move on and cite it as a “spiritual experience” because they hiked a volcano or took two weeks of Spanish courses. If this is your path, so be it, but I beg you to ask yourself, what kind of footprint am I leaving? Am I leaving this place better or worse? Many expats and digital nomads, much like me, seek a simple life, free of corporate greed and that endless 9-5 misery and a heavy caseload or nagging bosses. I get it! I do! I wanted to be an expat once, I really did. I still do, but I now walk a different road, and I encourage all of us to. Because coming from the United States, we were born with a set of privileges that are uncomfortable to acknowledge. We couldn’t control them. We grew up with English as our first language. The international language of airports and maybe even the lingua franca of travel and international affairs. We grew up in a safe country with a strong military. We grew up with freedom of speech and freedom to assemble. We grew up with a strong passport—visa-free travel to most countries, many for up to three months, some up to a year. Although gun violence is an issue and a struggle, I still trust our police force and don’t have to look over my shoulder too much on my walk home at night. That has half to do with my skin tone (another privilege) and half to do with my city and country. We don’t always think about this, but think about the converse. I could have been born in Sudan, a country devastated by genocide and civil war. I could have been born in Gaza, a terrority disputed by most countries and constantly in conflict and under genocide by one of the most well-funded militaries in the world. I could have been born in Afghanistan, where women still are not allowed to go to school under Taliban rule. Whether you believe it was divine, or chance, I think we can all acknowledge that each of us just as easily could have been born under different circumstances, and we are lucky and blessed to be right where we are.

            So yes, the simple life is a privilege. If I were to ask my taxi driver in Bogota, my translator in Guat, or my craftsman in Morocco, “Are you living the simple life?” what would they say? I think that they would say, “No, this is just my life.” Perception changes everything. The people I meet are extraordinary. They are wonderful and are living the most wonderful lives, but to them, they might not see it that way. The “simple life” isn’t “simple”, it is a life that touches tens, if not hundreds of people daily. For me, the simple life is just a life that is people-centered, rather than dollar-centered or career-centered. It is quieter, less hectic. From an outsider’s perspective, at least. If you frame it that way, perhaps my friends would agree.

I think that maybe the biggest travesty of all of this is the crime that I have committed while traveling and the biggest lesson I have ignored—humility and gratefulness. I have been perhaps the opposite—ungrateful. Discontent in my job, wanting to travel more, consume more, be a nomad, be more of a journalist, more of this imagined self of mine that I want to be, greater, stronger, better, richer. I have become the very thing I hate, the very person, the very system that I critique. And I realize now that my Bogota taxi driver would kill a man for my shit paralegal job—he would kill for my demanding boss and lack of growth, my unfriendly coworkers, cold office, and boring tasks—because it would afford him the privileges of working in the States and making my salary, with my benefits. I am unbelievably, ashamedly, humbled by this. I am embarrassed to the point of oblivion. I have talked a talk without knowing what the fuck I was talking about—I have been naïve, as I am sure you know all 26-year-olds tend to be.

I must ask forgiveness, and I must make amends, for although I chase a life for myself, I must continually ask myself, am I being equitable? Am I acknowledging that some lack choice in this life? Am I being kind? Am I being considerate, selfless? How can I use my privilege to be more generous, rather than to make my life more comfortable, as it already is? Am I chasing the simple life as a form of colonization, as a form of invasion, to be another gringa chasing an idealistic way of life that doesn’t really exist? Or can I become an immigrant, a true participant in the culture of a country, as complicated as it truly is, a member of the community as dirty and as drenched in poverty as it may be, without the luxury of my estaunidense paycheck and my estaunidense ego? Can I learn how to be a listener rather than a talker?

I am beginning to learn, finally, that I have spoken enough words, I have talked enough. It is time now to pay attention to others. It is time now to shut the fuck up.

I crave the quiet; I believe it is out there waiting for me. But the quiet is still itself fraught with challenges. No way of life is without hardship, there are no easy paths in this world, no easy way out. I have been searching for my relief, perhaps because I have been hurting so much. I have been struggling deeply with loneliness, shame, depression, and worse. I think about the chef who cooked my steak in Bogota, his kind smile and readiness to let me take his picture and his eagerness to feed me, making sure I ate the whole steak. It was a simple form of hospitality, but one I appreciated greatly. I miss Bogota’s people in the same way I miss Guat’s people. There is an ache within me, a deep añoranza that cannot be satisfied except by moving. Maybe it will not be the solution to all my problems, and maybe the miles away from my family might make them worse at first. Maybe it would be the wrong decision. But any decision is better than none at all, than staying stuck in misery. There is always a couch to come back to, always a law firm to work at—more privileges.

If you too are a seeker, seek. Go deeper until you reach the quick. I have found so many ugly and uncomfortable things about myself the deeper into my subconscious that I go. But I have also found the heart of my dreams, and the direction I want to take myself—my vision, the airplane that is going to take me far away. There is an old Peter, Paul, and Mary song called “500 Miles” that I love. It goes, “If you miss the train I’m on, you will know that I am gone, you can hear the whistle blow, a hundred miles…” It is about moving on, and the bittersweetness of saying goodbye. There are a lot of songs in the sixties about that, I have always wondered why. Bob Dylan has a song called “My Back Pages” that has got to be one of my favorites. In it he sings, “Oh but I was so much older then, I’m younger than that now…” That particularly resonates with me because I feel like years ago, I was having to deal with so much trauma, death, and responsibility that I was forced to be older than I was. Now that I have grown up and am free from those burdens, I feel lighter, younger, and able to make choices from a youthful spirit. I am able to enjoy things almost as if I am reclaiming my younger years back for myself.

We must acknowledge the mistakes we have made and continue on with humility and gratefulness. 500 miles from our homes and beyond, we must chase our dreams to the ends of the earth without fear. I believe that the kindness we put into the world will come back to us. I also believe that if there is a God, he walks among us and carves us a smooth path, if not a straight one. I am still just as entranced by the simple life as I was, and perhaps I can participate in it, but acknowledge my privilege, and do some good with it. And perhaps I don’t have to wait to cross the borders of another country to live a life that is small and ordinary. Maybe my “deadbeat” paralegal job is ordinary enough, maybe the very thing I hate about it is the very thing I seek, ironically, the very thing I have overlooked all along. Maybe I don’t have to be defined by what pays the bills, but rather, the content of my character or the things I do for fun, the things that really make me interesting, or the kindness I show others in the back of the bar, or in the front of the coffee shop, or in the tranquil space of my car on the way to Oak Cliff for Wayward and a walk. These are familiar spaces, liminal places I know so well yet have ceased to really engage in as I have chased my dreams so tirelessly, so ardently. I have ceased to become a part of my community, seeing myself as so above it, watching airplanes and seeing myself in the sky, across the sea, across the land, in another world. But life begins here, in Dallas. Life begins in my neighborhood, this simple life. I have been ignoring the very gifts I have been given in my stupid arrogance. I have been ignoring my wonderful friends and family. My friend gave me an insightful tarot reading yesterday at Wayward—she had me knock on the cards, choose my fate, and laid them out carefully onto the table beside our drinks. With intention and wisdom, she recited to me the meaning of each card. I didn’t know if I believed in such things, but I was willing to listen to her wisdom, her gift of foresight. My own sister has the gift of prophecy, and although it sometimes seems beyond me, I try to understand it.

She read the cards. “This one,” she said, “means you are trying to balance two things. You see,” she pointed, “you are caught between two things. And this one, means above all, you desire community.”

I began to cry. The cards were right. Above all, I sought the community I dared write about this whole time. In my arrogance, I thought I had the formula—home, community, love—but I didn’t know how to love. I didn’t know how to find peace within myself or how to build a community. I am deeply lonely and deeply confused.

“This one,” she continued, “Means you struggle with something menial, something that does not bring you joy. Something necessary, something that might bring you money or stability. But over here, this means you also have a dream that bursts through. This, perhaps, is what you juggle, what you balance. Your core struggle. But there is hope.” She turned to the top card. “Here, look.”

Some of this was deeply personal, too much to share. I think the core of the cards’ prophecy, the core of their meaning, is only for me. But their message was simple, a message I know intimately—I am caught between worlds, and I have known this. But there is no need to sacrifice my current life to pursue the next. There, at Wayward, I had Reagan right in front of me. There, I had a dear friend. There, community. There, love, encouragement. There, simplicity.

Next month, it will mark one year of my journalism journey. One year of pitching, one year of hard work. I will return to my beloved Oak Cliff Film Festival and mingle with fellow creatives. I will remember the magic of what it means to create as a part of a collective rather than in the shadows of my apartment. So often I can get lost in my own world. For the past six months I have been so lost. It took a trip to Bogota to snap me out of it. Usually, I come back from trips inspired. This time I came back ashamed, introspective. I learned a college semester’s worth of humility, and it feels like a knife to the gut. It is the start of another healing season. My friend Rebekah talks about these. I began one in 2025 after my car wreck. My mantra in the wake of the electric airbag smoke and impact was, “I want to live a long life, and I want to share my life with someone.” It is not a prophecy nor an actionable truth, but a promise to myself, something I can tuck away and treasure until the time comes. I am tucking it away now, waiting for its moment. Now, as a new healing season dawns, as I open my hands and let go of my ego, my arrogance, my biases, and everything else that I have, and wait to receive this tsunami wave of change I feel mounting, I hear a new mantra. I am not sure what it is yet, it is barely a whisper. But as I release my grip, and as I embrace simplicity and the wholeness it provides, I know it will become clear with time. All things will become clear with time, the healer of old wounds and the tiller of old soil.