As many of you know I travel a good bit and do not get to see my

In the words of Natalie Gulbis, spoken with candor and quiet sorrow, we hear the voice of one who has gained much, yet still feels the ache of distance: “As many of you know I travel a good bit and do not get to see my friends and family as much as I would like.” This confession, though simple, touches upon one of the deepest struggles of the human condition—that success and duty often carry with them the burden of separation from the very people who give life its sweetness.

The act of travel is double-edged. On one side, it opens doors to opportunity, adventure, and achievement. For Gulbis, it is the price and privilege of her profession, her road to competition and acclaim. Yet on the other side, it exacts a toll: the absence from hearth and home, the long stretches of solitude, the quiet yearning for voices and faces left behind. The ancients knew this paradox well. The merchant who brought silk and spices from afar gained riches, but also knew the ache of years spent away from family. The sailor who rode the waves for glory saw distant lands but often returned to children grown and parents gone.

To be parted from friends and family is no small sorrow. They are the circle that roots the soul, the companions who give joy meaning. Without them, even triumph may taste hollow. Consider the tale of Alexander the Great, who conquered lands to the edges of the world. Yet in his final days, though surrounded by treasure and power, he was tormented by loneliness, far from home and estranged from simple bonds of kinship. His story, like Gulbis’ reflection, shows us that greatness gained by distance must be weighed against the cost it demands.

And yet, there is no bitterness in Gulbis’ words—only longing. This, too, is wisdom. For life often forces us to choose: between work and rest, between duty and desire, between the road and the hearth. The lesson is not always to forsake travel or ambition, but to remain mindful of the things left behind, and to cherish them all the more when time permits. Her words remind us that absence does not erase love, but can deepen appreciation for it.

The ancients often spoke of balance. The Stoics taught that no man can have all things at once, but must learn to carry both joy and loss with equanimity. The Buddha spoke of the Middle Way, steering between extremes of indulgence and denial. Gulbis’ confession belongs to this lineage—it acknowledges the cost of her path, yet holds fast to gratitude for the love of friends and family, even from afar.

Her words also carry a subtle warning to those who chase only glory: remember the weight of absence. For time lost cannot be regained. To neglect relationships in the pursuit of worldly gain is to risk arriving at the end of the road rich in trophies, but poor in memory of shared laughter and closeness. History is filled with such lessons—leaders, artists, and kings who left behind works of greatness, yet died estranged from those they loved.

The lesson is clear: value your friends and family above the fleeting rewards of constant travel or ambition. If your duty calls you far, do not neglect the bonds of home. Call often, return when you can, and never allow absence to grow into neglect. For success is sweetest when it can be shared with those who matter most, and a journey is richest when it leads you back to those you love.

So I say to you: pursue your path boldly, but guard the ties of friendship and kinship as sacred. Travel if you must, labor if you must, but remember always the faces waiting for you at home. For in the end, it is not the miles you traveled that will echo in eternity, but the love you kept alive despite the distance.