This post is for those who are new to or struggle with slow travel and find it to be quite painful to embrace. Although I’m an experienced slow traveler, I still struggle with traveling slowly when I’m on the road. Let’s unpack why and how to embrace the painful slog to uncover the true benefits of slow travel.
Before we unpack how to embrace the painful slog of slow travel, let’s talk about why slow travel might be painful to some.
A few weeks ago, I wrote a post on how to deal with depression while traveling. I revolve my life around my travels so it’s quite a bummer that I spend the first few days of a trip depressed. Removed from my home environment and self-care routines, all my emotions catch up with me.
I face an uncomfortable truth: that I harbor deep sadness and overwhelm often unnoticed in the shadow of my two jobs and hectic busy-ness. And slowing down actually hurts.
A concoction of problems
There’s a lot going on with me at the moment. I’m piecing my life back together since Covid left it shattered. I’m separated from my family and miss them terribly. I am building a business. And I have underlying childhood trauma I’m trying to reconcile.
You too have your own concoction of problems. Everyone does. And we’re all trying to look after our mental health, whatever that entails.
A popular coping mechanism is travel of course. The romance of running away, being elsewhere for awhile. Away from our problems, away from ourselves.
But when you choose to “slow travel”, the benefits seem elusive. When you suddenly slow down and all your demons rear their ugly heads, it’s not exactly a pleasant experience. And you eventually have to return to your life. It feels like there’s no way out of your problems.
But I’m here to suggest something radical: that slow travel isn’t about getting away from our problems. And it’s okay if it doesn’t feel good. Self-care, after all, doesn’t always feel good.
Related
- Why Slow Travel is Essential for Your Wellbeing and Mental Health
- 8 Ways New Zealand is the best place on earth for slow, mindful travel
- 7 ways to slow down to become a better writer and storyteller
- 10 Best Small Towns in New Zealand for Slow Travel
- How Moving to New Zealand Healed Me and Made Me More Creative
Four fundamental tips to embrace the painful slog of slow travel
1. Reassess the reason for choosing slow travel
Unlike fast travel, slow travel isn’t to get away from our problems. It’s to sit with our problems. To get to know them and understand them and send ourselves some compassion.
It’s an overwhelming exercise if you’re not used to it. Which brings me to my next point.
2. Accept that presence is painful to attain… and practice anyway
On my most recent trip, I had a strange (and rather painful) moment of presence. My jobs require me to be online a lot and I can tell you firsthand how unhealthy social media can be for the brain. My obsession with Instagram and TikTok and algorithms hurts my brain and I’m trying to unhook myself.
When we arrived at the cottage I’d booked for our beach holiday, an Instagram glitch handicapped my content, causing it to underperform. The rage and despair were something to reckon with as I stormed outside.
Quickly I realized I hadn’t booked any activities for the day because, you know… slow travel. All I could do was stand there, surrounded by idyllic nature and the soft evening sun.
I fucking hated it. Watch the trees rustle in the wind? Listen to the birds sing? No thanks. My life was falling apart. No matter how hard I work, it continues to fall apart. And I don’t have capacity to work any harder.
Enjoying my physical three-dimensional life felt meaningless in the wake of the online world. If that’s not a sign that social media is taking a toll on my mental health, I don’t know what is.
I went inside, cried, then deleted all the apps from my phone.
Then I went on a walk to calm down. And speaking of which…
3. Move your body. Often.
Not only do we struggle to be present in our daily lives. Our jobs also tend to keep us hooked to a desk.
The point of slow travel is to adopt a slow itinerary dotted with enriching activities. That should leave plenty of room to reconnect with our bodies.
And the physical self harbors a lot of pain. Most people have a collection of aches and pains and old injuries. Tuning into this discomfort may feel like asking the impossible. Especially if exercise has long been on the backburner to make room for more important things, like working endlessly.
Exercise may not feel like a fun holiday activity but I consider it a staple of slow travel. Go hike among the trees. Swim a few laps in the sea. Hell, just go on a walk to discharge some of that restlessness.
It’s okay that everything hurts. That’s the point, to metabolize all this hurt. To understand what’s happening in the bodies we so often ignore. We might learn a thing or two.
3. For god’s sake, get some sleep.
It’s one thing to put work above exercise. But when it comes at the cost of sleep, we’re really in trouble. And I’m not innocent in this.
In my day-to-day, I’m so wound up with anxiety that sleep feels like a chore. It’s hard to get to sleep. It’s hard to stay asleep. And no matter how body- and brain-exhausted I am, I always manage to get out of bed before my alarm. It feels gross and unhealthy.
My advice is this. Go to bed early. And sleep in. If you can’t sleep, at least stay in bed. Meditate. Journal. Look out the window.
Just rest. Let the body rest. Let the mind wander.
This morning, in my little cottage, I woke up at 5am. I had half a mind to start the day, even though I had nothing planned. I pottered around the cottage for a minute, then forced myself back into bed. Just to chill out.
I fell back asleep and woke up later at 9am. I felt rested and it’s sad how foreign and glorious that felt to me. And I can’t wait to do it again.
And that’s one of the benefits of slow travel. That there’s nothing in the day asking for your attention or energy. That there’s room to give into our bodies’ most simple and fundamental needs. Which ties nicely into my last tip.
4. Understand that nothing is required of you, even though it won’t feel like it
The thing about being a workaholic (or whatever else plagues you) is it feels like life will fall apart if you don’t remain consistent in your addiction.
But take a deep breath and ponder the wider context for a minute. I don’t know anyone whose life has fallen apart from taking a week’s break, or even two. In fact, the idea of “life falling apart” is abstract and subjective.
For me, I had to realize that I was in fact falling apart. Ironically by doing things I thought would keep me from falling apart. Like working too hard. Obsessing over things I can’t control. Not sleeping or eating or exercising.
Having a break is what stitches us back together.
So understand that the discomfort won’t go away immediately. The pull of “responsibility” will still be there. You might notice the niggling voice in your head to check emails or open social media. You might still lunge for your phone when the screen lights up.
Understand that will take time to undo. Understand there’s nothing required of you while you’re on your slow holiday.
Please, for your sake and your family’s sake, take a break. Enjoy your precious getaway. I give you permission to do nothing. To rest and rejuvenate. To honor your needs and your mind and body.
These are the benefits of slow travel: to refill your cup, rebuild stamina so you can keep going.
Go gently and much love,
P
