Getting on the plane feels like being unplugged and inserted in another life. There’s enough detail in both places that a life is plausible: close friends, awkward crushes, unfulfilled desires and a social life.

But on the other end, everyone has made different choices. Communities instead of careers. Love instead of wealth. On both sides there are cracks, and efforts don’t always move you where you think you’re aiming, but the difference is profound. Where I visit I’m greeted with hugs; not polite shoulder tapping ones but full-on squeezing down to the belly button ones. There’s a closeness here, and I feel involved. The illusion lasts most of the trip—and it cannot be more than illusion: I don’t live there, I’m not really involved—and only comes apart at the last moment. A handful of difficult hours pass as I wait, patience wearing thin, not enough time to maintain the illusion.

I’m afraid I’ve overstayed my welcome, and I have no way to tell with fatigue and four days of unprocessed stimuli ricocheting inside my skull. I’m hard pressed to think of some aspect of myself or my life that hasn’t been cast in a light that I don’t entirely like, and although I understand the problem—assuming it is one, which might even be part of the problem—I am confused and agitated. There’s loud jazz and reggae. It’s too fast and I can’t concentrate.

I won’t forget the feeling; longing and confusion bubbling up from absolute terror, nervous energy building an unbearable pressure that I desperately want to release but can’t find an opportunity to. It builds until I’m almost shaking and finally, past airport security, I sit in the departure lounge and write down what I can extract coherently and listen to something more calming, a song given to me earlier that day. I don’t restrain tears but control my breathing.

Suddenly something shifts, and the terror dissolves; a warm feeling, like scotch or peeing yourself—a bottle-rocket to buddhahood. There’s a sensation that I haven’t felt in at least a decade, a lightness, something beyond words. I feel softer and stronger. A song jumps to mind. Today is the greatest. I’m smiling until I’m unplugged again.

Back in my life it becomes apparent that something significant has shifted. Everyone looks overdressed. Everything looks like it’s for show. Nobody makes eye contact with anyone else. On an evening bus carrying five people, four people are busily pretending that nobody else is there. It doesn’t feel like I’ve come home. It feels like a summary: “Now that you’ve seen what’s possible, here is what you have. Are you ok with this?”