When Angie Anand first visited Bali in 2014, she fell in love with it and vowed to return. In 2021, straight after lockdown was lifted, she jumped at the chance to swap central London for the Indonesian island.

“Surrounded by other entrepreneurs and digital nomads, I felt so inspired,” she says. “Accommodation was cheap, the lifestyle was amazing and I could afford a far better, healthier lifestyle than the one I had in the UK.” She managed to continue working as a remote virtual assistant while also running a breathwork business.

Fast forward to 2023, and it was clear Anand’s beloved digital nomad hub was changing. “It was being inundated with Russians who had unlimited funds, with some putting five-year down payments for accommodation in cash,” she says.

She had been paying £700 a month for a four-bedroom villa in a prime location; now, a two-bedroom villa in a less desirable place goes for £1,500.

“It’s impacted my finances massively; I’ve had to come back to England and make cash quickly,” she says. Anand has been in the UK since the start of summer, working as a makeup artist at weddings, and is planning on leaving again in November.

“I won’t go back to Bali, though, as it has lost its essence and simply isn’t as affordable as it used to be,” she adds. “There are still pockets of charm, but it feels overrun now.”

No escaping the hustle culture

For years, the image of the “digital nomad” lifestyle has been one of effortless freedom – your office is a breezy coffee shop, your lunch break a surf session. You can up sticks and take an adventure to a new location whenever you like. Looking on from the grey daily grind in Britain, there seems little to complain about, but the reality has always been more complicated.

Like Anand, around 31pc of British nomads are either less financially secure or spending more than they thought, according to figures from Bunq, a Dutch online bank. It also found that 22pc feel their career has suffered as a result of being a digital nomad.

“I see people chasing the dream of making a living through online means, who often earn an astronomical wage compared to the locations they work from,” says Tom Slater, 52. “They’re living in paradise, able to eat at any restaurant they like, and can afford to pay someone to clean and cook for them – yet they’re profoundly unfulfilled and unhappy.”

Slater was one of these nomads. Despite doing fulfilling work as a scuba diver and filmmaker, and travelling the world several times over since he was 17, it is only through many years of therapy that he’s been able to remedy the emptiness he felt at that time. He now works as a therapist to help others like him.

He’s observed a steady rise in digital nomads consumed by the pressures of so-called “hustle culture”. “There’s a sense that you need to work yourself to the bone to be successful; the mantra is ‘push, push, push and never give up’,” says Slater. “Digital worlds were meant to bring people closer, yet they often do the opposite, isolating us through routines designed to optimise every part of life.”

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Work-life balance emerged as a struggle in the Bunq report, with 15pc of digital nomads ranking it as their biggest challenge, above language barriers, healthcare and lack of stability. What was meant to be an escape from the grind is, for many, starting to look like the grind itself.

Decision-fatigued and admin-phobic

Harry Schmidt hasn’t had a fixed address since 2023, but he also struggled with the transience of the lifestyle. Working a remote job in finance, Schmidt mostly stayed in co-living arrangements designed for nomads – a kind of upmarket hostel with private rooms, shared common spaces, co-working areas, and organised events.

“It was exciting at first – I’d meet lots of interesting people choosing different paths – but I’m naturally solitary, so it got intense,” says Schmidt, 28. Meeting someone only to see them leave two weeks later became frustrating, and although he never felt lonely, he was itching for deeper, longer-term connections. “In two years, I can count on two hands the people I’d truly want to see again.”

Starting in Colombia, Schmidt moved roughly every three weeks, though it quickly became unsustainable alongside a full-time job. “Decision fatigue hit and I was overwhelmed by choice,” he says. “So I stopped caring so much about where I was going.” Over time, the stints grew longer. A three-month stint in Valencia is his longest yet, though, unlike those with a British passport, his Irish one allows him to stay in Europe indefinitely.

The logistics weighed heavily, too. Finding decent accommodation, handling travel routes and keeping up with admin became, as he puts it, a “phobia”. “The gloss of arriving somewhere new wore off and I stopped doing the touristy things – no castles or day trips – instead preferring to find a good coffee shop to do some work,” he says. “You can’t live your life as a constant tourist, and I noticed the same with other remote workers: the will to explore fades, and comfort takes over.”

That shift coincided with meeting his partner in December, which made the idea of settling somewhere more appealing. They have just moved to Brescia, Italy. Now running his own business, Schmidt is intrigued to see what it feels like to stay put. “Now the challenge is to commit,” he says. “It’s a rewiring of our brains.”

Looking back, Schmidt felt conflicted when he wasn’t enjoying the experiences he had. “Everyone assumes that you’re living the absolute dream as a digital nomad,” he says. “They think it sounds awesome. I’d always say, yes it is awesome. But, is it? Am I finding it awesome? Am I doing it for the right reasons? Am I living out other people’s dreams, and should I be more grateful?”

Tom Slater often sees this sense of shame in his clients; the guilt that they are feeling this way, while living an idealised life. “They look around and think, everyone else is doing it really well so why is it hard for me? Going back to their home country can be seen as a failure, and it is hard to return to paying the rent and to a ‘normal’ desk job,” he says.

‘As a foreigner, you never feel fully accepted’

“Back in 2014 when I started being a nomad, it was a very romantic time because it was so niche, and you really felt like you’d discovered a secret,” says Sondre Rasch, co-founder and chief executive of the remote work insurance provider SafetyWing.

Since then, there have been backlashes around the world against digital nomads, with locals blaming them for rising rents, overcrowded amenities and displacement.

After a string of government failures to protect local livelihoods and an active push to attract digital nomads, large protests against gentrification erupted in Mexico City, with locals calling for more robust rental regulation. In Cape Town, residents have lodged a petition for the city council to implement a “tourist tax” for digital nomads. Similar cries have been echoing through other hubs like Bali, Barcelona and Lisbon.

For some of the nomads themselves, this unwelcoming atmosphere can prove tough. Tech start-up founder Louison Dumont, his wife, and their young son spent four years in Portugal, moving every few months. “When we arrived, I had this dream of being the guy by the sea, making money online, living the best life – and it’s a beautiful idea,” he says. The reality proved different. Renting a four-bedroom apartment in Cascais or Sintra cost $3,000 a month.

Expense and bureaucracy were frustrating, but it was the lack of community that eventually sent them packing. “We tried to integrate into the local culture, but it’s hard when you’re surrounded by a huge expat bubble – and many locals understandably resent it,” he says. “That creates a tension where, as a foreigner, you never feel fully accepted.”

The nomad scene compounded the isolation. “I’d go to meetups and meet people who’d only be there for two months before they’re gone,” he says. “People were shocked to hear we’d stayed four years – practically old-timers.”

That experience shifted Dumont’s priorities. “You can move to save money, get better weather or lifestyle – but the real wealth is in relationships.”

In August, the family relocated to Austin, Texas, which immediately felt like home. “It’s more expensive and stressful, but life isn’t all about comfort,” he says. “The beach lifestyle got old and we wanted to be near the action.” The family will still travel, but their nomad days are behind them.

Today, Rasch argues, “digital nomadism” is entering a second phase, with the fastest growing groups being families and people in their 50s and 60s. One marker of that shift is the spread of nomad visas: “In 2019, it was just an idea we talked about,” he explains. “Then Barbados launched the first nomad visa, and now 80 countries have programmes.” Infrastructure around health, banking and visas is still fragmented, he adds, but is improving quickly.

For 50-year-old Anand, that agency now means leaving behind Bali in search of a new base. “I want to try somewhere where I’m not walking down the street and seeing influencers in tiny gym shorts taking selfies,” she says. “I’ve been told I’m too ‘old’ to be a digital nomad, but I don’t believe there’s an age limit to getting out there and living my life.”

Mauritius, which offers remote worker visas and even residency to over-50s, is a strong contender. “I’m hoping it had that authentic, undiscovered island feel,” she says. “The dream is to wake up with a beach view.”