Crying at the Mountains in Wanaka, New Zealand

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After months of unsustainable work and poor sleep, I found myself in Wanaka, New Zealand, crying at her mountains and questioning my existence. Let this post serve as a reminder of the risk of overworking and the importance of slowing down.

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Wanaka – and Otago in general – is my favorite place to be during New Zealand autumn. Over the decades, deciduous trees multiplied across the region, and from March to May, explode into vibrant fields of red and yellow in every direction.

Wineries come alive for the harvest. The air is crisp and nibbles at the skin in gentle bites. And families spill into the streets for a series of autumn festivals.

I had many plans when I booked this trip, of sipping turmeric lattes, meandering lakes with a scarf around my neck and enchantment in my eyes.

But by the time I reached Wanaka, I was so tired I couldn’t walk straight. And my stomach was a coil of anxiety.

Enjoy my share of events that led to me crying at the mountains in Wanaka, adding yet another emotional adventure to my New Zealand treasure chest.

Related: Naked and Laughing Hysterically on a Beach in New Zealand

Crying at the mountains in Wanaka, New Zealand

At a party with low batteries

I commonly work 15-hour days.

But I’m not complaining. I signed up to build a business while having a full-time job. Things are bound to get busy.

Suffice it to say, when Saturday rolled around, my batteries were already low. I only had one last job before hopping the 2:00am ferry to the South Island: a 21st birthday party.

I love a party as much as the next guy. But this 27-year-old body had trouble keeping up with the youngsters as they flounced from buffet to dance floor, drinking an exorbitant volume of wine.

On my feet for over three hours, I coordinated drunk people to pose, clicked photos, then stumbled home with an aching neck.

20 minutes of sleep on the overnight ferry

Not a second to spare, Shaun and I packed the car and lined up at the ferry terminal by 1:00am. Boarded by 2:00am. Then had the worst sleep of my life on a metal bench in freezing temperatures as the black night of the Cook Strait pressed in around us.

Again, not complaining.

Because Picton greeted us with the most epic sunrise I’d ever seen. I love the deep calm of sunrise. Clear skies opened ahead, drenching the South Island in a rich warm glow. Gentle rolling hills of Blenheim morphed into the soaring giants of Kaikoura.

We were in the South Island.

Despite months-old exhaustion and 20-minutes’ sleep, I drove 4 hours to Christchurch where we would kickstart our adventures.

In retrospect, this wasn’t my smartest moment. I could’ve dozed off and driven us off a cliff.

But my weird work-hungry brain was on a mission.

As soon as we got to Christchurch, we got to work.

Epic landscapes and anxiety galore

One could say I was living the dream as I zipped from one epic landscape to the next. And I was!

But here’s the thing about anxiety. It robs us of the ability to enjoy. It pulls a curtain over our eyes and we’re blind to the abundance and wonder in the world around us.

Because I was living the dream. A hosted trip with multiple clients to deliver for, endless writing opportunities, and a wardrobe of pretty clothes. But for the life of me, I couldn’t get out of my head.

And this is my own fault. I don’t have boundaries when it comes to my business.

Every moment required a task out of me. As much productivity as I fit into the day, it was never enough. Which translated into me not being enough. And I had nothing left to give.

Impostor syndrome and all its voices

From Christchurch to Tekapo to Mount Cook, I desperately grabbed for joy. But it slipped through my fingers like water.

Presence eluded me and I was, to be frank, miserable. I was a dark cloud of fatigue and sadness. Beauty shimmered all around and I wished I could dissolve into it and cease to exist.

And this may sound dramatic but impostor syndrome does strange things to the mind. It whispers our darkest thoughts, of forfeiting our right to belong anywhere.

When we arrived in Wanaka, I had a digestive flare. As you may know, I’ve had digestive complications from a young age. It’s how my body communicates that something’s out of whack.

It stopped accepting food. Cramps twinged in my stomach, radiated across my back and crushed the already-tense muscles in my neck. And there I went, for the thousandth time in my life, bed-ridden.

Remembering to wake up

Morning light filtered through our little room’s window. My first thought was how useless I was for missing the sunrise.

Anxiety curdled in my blood and the nightmare of existing started once again.

Shaun and I gathered some things to make breakfast. For the hundredth time, he made a simple request: “Leave your phone behind.”

I finally relented. I abandoned my phone… and camera and laptop… and left for the common area, where strangers milled about in morning slowness. The smell of coffee and toast permeated the air. And across the hall, floor-to-ceiling windows invited a view of the mountains, where Shaun and I took a seat with two steaming long blacks.

With slow sips and little bites, I rubbed my belly where the cramps had become a dull ache. Free of my devices, I focused long enough to nurture a sense of calm. My muscles were strung so tight. In measured breaths, I relaxed them. And openness suddenly bloomed within.

I looked around, like I was seeing the world for the first time. Strangers in hushed conversation. Autumn trees and the lake outside. Towering mountains.

They were so beautiful.

And it was so quiet.

Tension eased her grip on my throat. The tears started. More tension lifted. More tears.

I’d finally woken up.

Lessons from the mountains

Ever since moving to New Zealand, I’ve made a habit of crying in public… Wanaka’s mountains were the perfect environment to elicit this reaction once again. Thankfully I was turned away from anyone’s notice. And I had eyes only for the mountain peaks.

It brought me back to my “why”. The reason I preach about nature and slowing down. I don’t know what it is about nature that wakes us up and instills presence upon us. I’ve written about it many times and I feel I never get closer to explaining it.

I suppose, in that moment, it highlighted all the miserable things I fabricated in my head: enormous pressure to create, to capitalize and maximise my time for optimum productivity. None of it was real. 

The stillness of the mountains… that was real. Rain moving across the peaks… that was real. The crisp autumn air, murmurs of the lake… that was real.

The world had been a pervasive gray and suddenly I saw in color again. Peace eluded me for so long, yet there it was, ready to be harvested all around.

Slowing down

I preach about slow travel… quite a lot. But when it came down to it, I threw all my own advice out the window. And it left me with an uncomfortable feeling of… inauthenticity.

So here I am, owning up to it. I preach about slow travel but the truth is, I’m not very good at it. But maybe that’s why I talk about it… because I know how much I need it. How much others need it.

And I can tell you, after that, I did slow down. Looking through my camera, the number of photos declined after Wanaka. On my phone, photos of Arrowtown and Queenstown and the rest of the trip, are more authentic. Selfies at restaurants. Shaun lounging in front of fireplaces. Silly not-Instagram-worthy videos.

The most delicious memory of a large hotel bed, sleeping, sleeping, sleeping.

We need the dark moments. That’s where the lessons are. It’s how we find our way back to the light.

Crying at the mountains in Wanaka was yet another lesson for my New Zealand chronicles. A cathartic experience I won’t soon forget, and one I hope resonates with you to slow down and be a bit gentler with yourself.

Related: Why Slow Travel is Essential for your Mental Health