Today is December 31st. In just a few hours, the righteous, volatile, and life-changing year that has been 2018 will come to an end. In an attempt to make sense of the past 365 days, I am adding up numbers.

128: the number of days I spent at home in Chapel Hill/Durham.

237: the number of days I spent traveling.

Four major road trips across 18 states in the U.S., a corner of Canada, and two regions of Japan equals roughly 12,000 miles traveled by car.

105 days of living and working at sea comes out to over 9,000 nautical miles traveled by ship.

16 flights equate to about 17,500 miles traveled by plane.

Completely exhausted after a hard work-out on a ship in the middle of the Pacific.

I have lived this past year with a complete lack of permanence—in any place, for any amount of time, with anyone. In a state of almost constant transience, I have discovered new ways to feel grounded. Within the unpredictable world of full-time freelance work, I have found (and continue to find) a willingness to embrace the unknown. In the midst of feeling more awake than I have ever felt in my life, I have forced myself to sleep.

I slept in my own bed just over 100 times. On one of those rare occasions (after returning from a month-long expedition) I slept for 14 hours straight.

I slept while our ship busted through thick sheets of ice in Antarctica. I slept while hurricane swell rocked our ship in the eastern tropical Pacific. I slept in the passenger seat while Jon Haas drove us across the entirety of Idaho and Montana. I slept like a baby on the floor of a concert venue while punk rock music blared around me.

I didn’t sleep through a moderate earthquake in Tokyo. That woke me up.

I exercised a lot, but not enough. I drank too much coffee and ate too much sugar. I gained some weight, then lost a few pounds, and then gained it back. I berated myself for getting out of shape. I reminded myself that my gym membership has been “frozen” for eight months of this year.

The sleep deprivation, the unhealthy foods, and the lack of routine adds up.

I learned a lot. I learned all kinds of things about ocean ecosystems and marine robotics and microbiology. I learned a new video editing software. I learned how to fly a drone in the middle of the ocean. I learned a little bit of Japanese.

I learned a few things the hard way. I learned that broken trust is not easily mended. I learned that it’s okay to miss a few weddings and baby showers, but no matter where I am in the world, I need to call my family and friends on their birthdays.

I learned that I can feel at home just about anywhere, but no place feeds my heart and soothes my soul more than the Toe River Valley in the Black Mountains.

Photographing the Black Mountains in the pre-dawn light in early September.

When I come home to Chapel Hill and Durham, I return to a community of beautiful friends who have loving marriages and stable careers. They own houses. They grow lush gardens and house plants that don’t die. They regularly attend yoga classes and book clubs and dinner parties. They have babies. They are new parents.

The only abode I own is my tent. Doing a couple early-morning push-ups is my yoga. Driving by myself for hours on end is my meditation. Writing a letter during a long flight is the closest I come to romance. Expeditions are my babies.

I learned that making comparisons is an exercise in futility.

In the place of routine and stability, I have freedom. I have the daunting and exhilarating challenge of managing a small business by myself, venturing thousands and thousands of miles, maintaining relationships with people all over the planet—and trying to do those things well. It adds up. It’s a lot.

And it’s awesome.