And How I Find Happiness at Home

For a long time, travel shaped my life. Traveling between coasts and countries brought structure and momentum—journeys to follow, places to be, people to meet, places to cover. At one point, I took 45 flights in one year, and it felt less like an exaggeration and more like proof that I was living life to the fullest. Travel brought innovation, inspiration, and connection—but it also provided something even more compelling: direction. When you’re moving, it’s easy to feel like you know where you’re headed.

Recently, I had an idea that gave me pause—that movement, comfort, and constant stimulation can sometimes seem to have meaning. It immediately made sense. Traveling gives you a built-in agenda: reservations to keep, landmarks to see, plans to accomplish. There is little empty space, and little room to ask what you really want or need. For me, the costs became more and more apparent—the fatigue that lingered after each trip, the nervous system that struggled to stabilize, and the realization that I was more likely to exist in anticipation than in my daily life.

How to Find Happiness Where You Are

So instead of planning my next destination, I chose to explore something different: a year of slow travel. Not as a rejection of curiosity or fun, but as a deliberate pause—an inculcation of staying at home and paying close attention. In 2026, I choose to remain deeply rooted in Portland and the Pacific Northwest, exploring what it means to find wonder, growth, and meaning outside of constant motion. What I’ve found so far is this: staying in place doesn’t end life—it just asks you to create it more consciously.

Why I Chose A Year of Slow Travel

Choosing to take a year off wasn’t so much a reaction to burnout as a realignment of priorities. I noticed that even the trips I really liked—the ones full of beauty, culture, and connection—demanded more than I had. Recovery is extended over a long period of time. The changes felt overwhelming. The motivation was still there, but it came with a rate of decline that I could no longer ignore.

Slowing down also brought unexpected clarity about how I wanted to live each day. When travel is common, it’s easier to shape your life around it temporarily—planning to go, justifying apologies, postponing self-care until you’re “back.” Choosing a gap year gave me the space to fully invest in what is good for me: my home, my life, my creative work, and the relationships I have when I’m not in transit.

More than anything, I wanted to see what might happen if I stopped relying on movement to make life feel expansive. With no trips on the calendar, different questions arose: What makes my days feel full if nothing new is planned? Where does youth come from if I don’t want it anywhere else? A year of slowness felt like an invitation to deepen rather than dissolve—to let meaning grow in focus instead of movement.

Regular Travel Expenses

For a long time, I viewed the exhaustion that followed travel as a reasonable—temporary, even romantic—exchange. But when the trips piled up back to back, the amount charged became difficult to pass up. Emotionally, there was little room to assimilate the experience before moving on. Each return home felt shorter, each departure faster.

There is also the practical reality of constant motion. Airports, time changes, strange beds, and constant stimulation keep the body on alert. Even a happy trip rarely pays off. Over time, I found myself craving predictability—not out of boredom, but because my nervous system needed something to settle into.

Then there are the financial costs. When travel becomes routine, expenses fade into the background—flights booked for convenience, accommodations framed as “musts,” experiences are worth because they have purpose. Individually, no one feels guilt. Together, they create what you don’t have space for: long-term investment, consistency in care, and the kinds of choices that support everyday life.

Naming these costs was not a complete refusal to travel. It was about realizing how easy constant movement can be to destroy stability—and understanding why staying at home, on purpose, began to feel not like restriction, but a form of care.

How Staying at Home Restores Energy

What surprised me most about staying at home wasn’t boredom—it was relief. Without moving forward, my days began to feel more open, even when they were full. Strength stopped being something I had to recover from and became something I could actually build.

Staying at home restored energy in small, cumulative ways. The morning felt so slow. The night is long instead of boring. More mental bandwidth—once used for planning and organizing—was suddenly available in everyday life.

It was back to normal. Normal movement. Standard meals. My creativity has been strengthened, not fueled by innovation but sustained by repetition. Instead of looking for inspiration elsewhere, I found it came naturally—in walks with neighbors, at the farmers market, and in conversations that slowly unfolded over time.

Staying at home didn’t shrink my world. It stabilized.

How to Find Fear Wherever You Are

A year of slow travel has taught me that wonder doesn’t end when you stop moving—it just appears closer to home. These are simple, repeatable ways I’ve been cultivating curiosity and expansion without leaving my home.

1. Return to the Same Place with Purpose. Pick one place—a park, a coffee shop, a sidewalk—and visit it regularly. Familiarity creates depth. You start to see a change.

2. Plan to Go Out on Your Own Every Week. Travel often creates alone time. So instead, I plan to do one activity alone—a walk, visit a museum, have lunch alone—and treat it as non-negotiable.

3. Search locally, such as New. Visit a place you don’t usually spend time in. Learn the history of the area you pass every day. Remember: curiosity does not need distance.

4. Let the Season Shape Your Plans. Instead of planning production, I plan lighting and weather. Long walks on bright days. The night before when it’s dark.

5. Create Anticipation at Home. Weekly dinners, monthly visits, personal errands—having something coming up on the calendar changes the way the present feels.

Weekly Inspiration Framework

One thing walking does well is creating momentum. In a slow year, I’ve found it helpful to recreate that structure—without overloading my schedule.

1. One Anchor Plan. Pick one thing to look forward to each week: a walk, a gym class, or maybe dinner with a friend.

2. One Moment of Curiosity. A visit to a theater, a chapter of my book, a lecture, a documentary—something that expands the mind.

3. One Night of Purpose. Plan it like a night out: what to cook, read, watch, and when to unplug.

4. One Reset. Movement without an agenda—walking, stretching, yoga.

5. One Reflection Enter. Take a few minutes to write to note what felt good, what drained you, and what you want for the week ahead.

Choosing Immobility as a Season

A slow year is not about slowing down your life. For me, it was about letting my life meet me where I am—without the constant forward motion, planning, and anticipation that travel requires.

I don’t think travel is a problem. I still love it. But I’ve learned how movement can easily defy definition, how full calendars can mask exhaustion, and how often I’ve been taking my sense of life to the next level. Staying at home asked me something different: attention, presence, and patience. Not always beautiful—but profoundly stable.

This year is not one to say no forever. It’s about saying yes to the era of uprooting, recognizing what’s already there, and trusting that growth doesn’t always require a boarding pass. If you’re feeling tired, disconnected, or just longing for more ground under your feet, maybe a year of slow travel isn’t a retreat at all—but a return to what you need most.