Last October, I sat in Terminal 4 at JFK, nursing a lukewarm $14 Heineken, and I realized I hadn’t told a single member of my family I was leaving the country. I was headed to Mexico City for eight days. No itinerary, no ‘check-in’ plan, and most importantly, no goodbye. My phone was buzzing with a group chat text about my cousin’s baby shower, and I just… swiped it away. I felt like a criminal. A very relaxed, slightly tipsy criminal.
Most people think this is sociopathic. They say, “What if something happens?” or “Don’t they worry?” But here is the cold, hard truth: The ‘goodbye’ is a performance that pays dividends in anxiety. When you tell your family you’re leaving, you aren’t just sharing information. You are opening a door for their baggage to be packed into your suitcase. You’re inviting the ‘text me when you land’ and the ‘be careful of the water’ and the inevitable guilt trip about why you didn’t invite them or go see your aunt in Florida instead.
The goodbye is actually a trap
I used to be the person who did the rounds. I’d call my mom, my sister, and my grandmother. I’d spend forty-five minutes on the phone justifying why I was spending my own money to go somewhere they didn’t understand. By the time I actually got to the airport, I was exhausted. I wasn’t going on a vacation; I was escaping a trial.
What I mean is—actually, let me put it differently. It’s not that I don’t love them. It’s that I hate the version of me they expect when I’m traveling. They want the version that is constantly available. If I don’t say goodbye, that version doesn’t have to exist. I’m just ‘busy’ for a week. It is the ultimate life hack for anyone with overbearing relatives.
I know people will disagree with this. They’ll say it’s disrespectful or dangerous. But I’ve tracked this. I literally kept a log in my Notes app for three years. When I did the ‘big goodbye’ for a trip to Portugal in 2021, I received an average of 14 check-in texts per day. When I ‘ghosted’ for a trip to Japan in 2023, I received zero. My stress levels—measured by my Oura ring—stayed in the ‘rest’ zone for 80% of the Japan trip. Portugal? I was in ‘stress’ or ‘engagement’ the whole time. The data doesn’t lie.
The part where I tell you I might be wrong
Now, I’m not saying you should do this if you have kids or a spouse who depends on you. That’s just being a deadbeat. I’m talking about the extended family—the parents who still think you’re twelve, the siblings who have an opinion on everything.
I might be wrong about the safety aspect. I realize that if my plane goes down over the Gulf, my mother will find out via a news crawl rather than a tearful phone call. That’s grim. It’s a bit selfish. But honestly? If I’m at the bottom of the ocean, her knowing 24 hours earlier isn’t going to change my status. It sounds harsh, but I’ve become very comfortable with being the ‘bad’ family member if it means I get to actually enjoy a sunset without explaining to my dad why I’m not wearing a jacket in a tropical climate.
The silence of a hidden vacation is the loudest form of self-care.
A brief tangent about luggage
Anyway, speaking of travel, I have to say this: I refuse to buy a Rimowa suitcase. I see everyone in the lounge with those silver aluminum boxes and I just don’t get it. You’re paying $1,400 for a heavy metal box that screams ‘rob me’ at the baggage carousel and gets dented if a TSA agent even looks at it funny. I’ve used the same $110 Osprey backpack for six years. It’s ugly, it smells a bit like old sunscreen, and it’s never let me down. People who buy luxury luggage are usually the same people who can’t handle a vacation without calling their mom every hour. There, I said it.
But I digress.
The logistics of being a ghost
How do you actually do it? It’s easier than you think.
- Stop posting in real-time. This is the hardest part for most people. If you post a photo of your margaritas on Instagram, the jig is up. Save the photos for a ‘photo dump’ three weeks later.
- Set expectations early. I’ve spent the last two years becoming ‘that person’ who is bad at texting. If I don’t reply for three days, nobody calls the police. They just think I’m being me.
- The ‘Emergency’ contact. I give my itinerary to one trusted friend. Not family. A friend who knows the rules: only call me if the house is literally on fire.
It’s about reclaiming your autonomy. We live in this era of radical transparency where everyone feels entitled to your GPS coordinates. I hate it. I actively tell my friends to stop sharing their ‘Find My’ location with their parents. It’s a digital leash. Cut it.
The aftermath is surprisingly fine
The first time I came back from a ‘secret’ trip, I felt a weird surge of power. I saw my mom a week later for Sunday dinner. She asked what I’d been up to. I told her I’d been catching up on work and sleep. It wasn’t a lie—I did sleep a lot in Mexico.
I felt a little guilty when she talked about how much she missed me, but then she started complaining about her neighbor’s lawn for twenty minutes and I remembered why I didn’t tell her I was going. If she had known I was in Mexico, she would have called me during my massage to tell me about that lawn.
I’ve done this four times now. Each time, the vacation feels twice as long. I’m not suggesting everyone become a hermit, but maybe just try it once. Go to a city three states over. Don’t post. Don’t call. Don’t say goodbye. Just go.
Does it make me a bad daughter? Maybe. But I’m a much happier one. And honestly, I’m still not sure if I’ll tell them about the trip I have planned for next month. I probably won’t.