I think I may have caught this bug as a child.

I discovered escapism in stories.

My wanderlust, back then, would be largely limited to the pages of a book and my imagination. But as soon as I was able and had any means at all, I began traveling.

I have been seduced by beaches, by mountains, by the vibrancy of a city; by mosques, by basilicas, by street art and Van Gogh. I have dropped into countries not knowing the language or another soul, but compelled to experience things I had only known in abstraction. I hate wasting daylight in a new place, so I've slept in trains and buses heading overnight to the next stop.

I recognize that a tribe of wanderers exists among us. We find it hard to resist the impulse to move, despite deep roots. The heft of our passports matters more than the size of our homes.

Travel is rarely relaxing for me. There's a discomfort to unfamiliar surroundings, to getting lost, to making plans and constantly adjusting them. In that discomfort, that break from familiarity and routine, is a chance to feel more fully alive. When I've stumbled across something that forces me to stop and take notice, I step into the shoes of my children. I embrace that feeling of wonder.

I married someone with this same sensibility. We have wanted to show our children the vastness of everything outside their circles. It may be one of the best gifts parents can impart: Give them a sense of how big the world is and plant the desire for them to explore it.

My parents were not able to take us on fancy vacations as children. But they bought us lots of books, took us to the library and told us countless stories of their own childhoods far away. It nourished that desire to see as much of the world as possible.

When I decided to study abroad in college, I created a program for myself in Cairo. I had never been in the Middle East. I did not know anyone in Egypt, nor did I speak Arabic. But I was fascinated by the culture and history of the region. When you live in a foreign place for months, you learn how to hail a cab and not get ripped off by the cabbie. You get sick and figure out how to see a doctor. You eat and drink where the locals eat and drink. You become a little less foreign.

You discover what homesickness feels like in the core of your being.

And you gain an innate sense of independence.

The realization that I could survive in a strange land, on my own as a young adult, may be one of the most powerful and lasting lessons of that journey.

So often with our children, we return to the same places. We want them to develop close bonds with their grandparents and relatives who live in different states. We want them to experience the cliched but genuine magic of Disney, the tranquility of water and sand, the thrill of snowfall. We want to show them the monuments that are the fabric of this country's history, and the richness of art and culture in its museums. They should see firsthand the difference between a desert dusk and a sun setting among skyscrapers.

Staying close to home is like reading the same line of poetry over and over.

Places can change us profoundly.

I am a different person for having drifted down the Nile in a felucca, cheered at a soccer match in Argentina, shopped in the street markets in Karachi and bargained at the Grand Bazaar in Turkey. I know the places that will tug at me to return: Paris, Lake Louise, Brazil. And the places I long to see one day: the Taj Mahal, Cordoba, the glittering blue waves in the Maldives.

Whether or not I make it to all the places that capture my imagination, the thought of one day traveling to them makes me hopeful. For my children, I hope the journey takes them far.

And brings them back.

The most pernicious lie I believed about motherhood was a lie of omission.

No one told me that having ambitious career goals while raising children required significant help. By help, I mean any or some combination of: a stay-at-home spouse, accessible and helpful relatives, reliable childcare, a housecleaner or cook.

It was a mystery to me how everyone else managed to keep a clean house, their families fed healthy meals, and themselves maintained while still advancing at work and having time for a social life.

I'm sure there will always be the 1 percent of superwomen among us who pull this off without hired help or extraordinary support systems. But I'm talking about the 99 percent -- the rest of us. We're human: Our minds can only carry so many to-do items at one time. (That would be around seven, research shows.) Our bodies have a minimum requirement for sleep.

I learned this after years of wondering why I was so tired, so rushed and always feeling so behind: The ones who are "leaning in" full-tilt have someone else putting away a lot of laundry and preparing a fair number of meals. Even the ones who can barely afford it, outsource it. If it's a choice between a pricey summer camp for the children or a weekly cleaning service, pick the maid!

No working mother shared this advice so explicitly with me until recently. It's not just a matter of choosing peace of mind or an extra few hours of rest for yourself. Paid help at home can make the critical difference of getting by at work or getting ahead.

Brigid Schulte exposes a few of these truths in her recent book, "Overwhelmed: Work, Love, and Play When No One Has the Time." The research bears out these facts: More mothers today work outside the home, spend more time taking care of their children, do a greater percentage of household chores than their spouses and have less time for themselves than in years past.

One of the time-use researchers Schulte interviewed remarked: "Employed mothers talking about sleep is like a hungry man talking about food."

Now that, right there, is truth.

"You can't add work and do more child care without getting enormously time-stressed. You can't have it all unless other things shift in other people's behavior -- unless men actually reduce their working hours and increase their time doing housework and child care, unless cultures change and we're prepared to give social support to parents," says Lyn Craig, a sociologist and time-use researcher from Australia, in Schulte's book.

As a product of a working-class childhood, the idea of needing another person to keep my home as clean as I would like it or relying on prepared meals to feed my family seemed indulgent and lazy. I had watched my mother, raising six children, manage to run a functioning household.

I never saw her sit still. I never saw her take a nap in the afternoon, or sit down to simply watch a television show or read a book. The woman was (and is, to this day) always in motion. From her, I inherited the notion that the best mothers are continuously working.

It is an impossible standard to set for myself, as she didn't work outside the home when we were young. We didn't have multiple activities to which she drove us. The work was no less time consuming, but she had prioritized what was most important and sacrificed the rest.

My youngest sister, a powerhouse attorney with a baby and another on the way, still has ambitious career goals she hopes to achieve. I texted her recently: "You need a full-time nanny, who you can teach to cook, plus keep Mom on standby. Also, up your maid's hours. This is the best career advice I can give you."

I'm done with the lies.

I stood on the front step of my house and closed the storm door behind me to greet these visitors. I was not about to let them in without a warning.

"You might get the shakes," I said. Joshua Fields Millburn and Ryan Nicodemus, both 32, are the authors of "Everything That Remains: A Memoir by the Minimalists," the story of their path to living with less -- much less.

My house was in the middle of a major renovation project, so the entire contents of my kitchen were piled in the dining room and basement, with a makeshift eating area in the family room. It was the most antithetical display to minimalism that I could imagine.

We've seen worse, they assured me. We've lived worse, they said.

Cautiously, I allowed them in.

Both of them, childhood friends from Dayton, Ohio, quit six-figure jobs nearly four years ago and got rid of most of their fancy possessions in the quest to live happier, more fulfilling lives. They were recently in St. Louis as part of a 100-city tour promoting their latest book.

So, how's this new way of life working out?

"I really don't have anything I miss," Nicodemus said.

"There's nothing I couldn't replace right now," Millburn added.

They had been working 60 to 80 hours a week in corporate jobs. Now, they write, blog, speak, are making a documentary and have started their own press. They say they are physically, mentally and financially better off.

Millburn realized this when his mother died the same month as his marriage ended in 2009. He had to deal with his mother's 65 years' worth of accumulated things. At first, he wanted to box everything and put it in storage. But then he realized that she was not in her "stuff." He took pictures of the things that mattered to him and got rid of it all.

"I was so tied to my things emotionally," Millburn said. "Our possessions can be triggers to memories, but we can set up other triggers."

He applied the same principle to his own life.

"I was using the past as a weapon to batter my present self," Millburn said.

Nicodemus noticed how much happier Millburn seemed soon after this difficult time and asked how he was managing.

"Do they have you on Prozac?" he asked. His friend told him he had discovered minimalism. It appealed to Nicodemus. "I think the material possessions in my life were a physical manifestation of internal clutter," he said.

Both men had a realization that the things that matter most -- health, relationships, giving, writing -- got the least of their time.

It's a message that has resonated strongly with their millions of readers. "We are shifting from a culture of consumption or ownership to a culture of access," Nicodemus said. You don't have to own something to appreciate it. Books, music, art, memories can all be stored in a cloud.

"Since the economy crashed, people have been reawakened. They are not buying into the ideology that you have to consume to be happy," Nicodemus said.

"People are experiencing a lot of discontent, with either their finances or time. I didn't feel like I had control of my finances or time," Millburn said.

In that old life, Nicodemus said, "we had $6,000 worth of shoes between the two of us."

Today, there are rules they live by.

"If I haven't used something in 90 days, I will seriously consider whether I need to live with it," Nicodemus said. "I am constantly asking the question: Does this thing bring me joy or is it adding value to my life?"

He also doesn't have a TV. "I would watch it all the time," he said.

Readers often share their own techniques for keeping excess stuff at bay. A mother of young children told them that she keeps a "one in, one out" rule for any new toy her children want.

For these two, the books and blog are not about converting anyone else to a lifestyle that works for them, but about sharing ideas that may be useful to others.

"Ultimately, this journey is about you. When other people in your life see the benefits, they are compelled to take action in their own lives," Millburn said.

In my case, the most common hurdles I've faced in getting rid of things are the sentimental attachment, the possibility of future use, and the genuine joy that can come from infrequently used but beautiful items.

"There were three words I had a very intimate relationship with: just in case," Millburn said.

We hang on to things: just in case.

They pose a challenge on their website, TheMinimalists.com, in which you find a a friend or family member willing to get rid of some excess stuff. Each person gets rid of one thing on the first day of the month. On the second day, two things. Three items on the third. So forth and so on. The items can be clothes, furniture, electronics, tools, decorations, anything. You can donate, sell or trash them.

Whoever can keep it going the longest wins. You both win if you can make it all month.

For those doing the math, you end up with 496 fewer items by the end of a 31-day month. Their visit inspired me to start this challenge, and I've already shed 100 excess items.

It's a useful reminder of how easily less can seem like more.