Depressed in a cottage in the most beautiful country on earth: when travel feels difficult

Musings about depression while traveling, and my odd experience of being depressed in a cottage in the most beautiful country on earth (hint: New Zealand).

This week, I couldn’t be bothered writing an SEO-friendly informational spiel about whatever you should be doing on your travels.

I’ve been in a “funk” of existential dread.

And I want to talk about mental health. About a recent strange experience, and all the uncomfortable questions I had to face.

Was travel helping or hurting my mental health?

Was I happy here in New Zealand?

Would I ever be happy, anywhere?

Life is hard, and then there was a pandemic

Odds are, I’m not alone. The pandemic has flipped the world upside down. And although domestic travel is more prominent than ever, it’s difficult to see New Zealand, once bustling with activity, now quiet and somber and sleepy. The roads are empty. Businesses wait with doors open and no one inside.

There’s a heaviness to people these days. And there have been dark dreaded things in my stomach.

This post offers no answers or solutions. It is simply space to sit inside the human experience, in all its flowers and thorns. To feel a little less alone.

Below is the story of the day I was depressed in a cottage in the most beautiful country on earth. Happy reading.

Disclaimer: I’m not a mental health professional and nothing I say should be taken as medical advice. Please seek professional help if you are struggling with depression, anxiety, or other mental health issues.

Related

• 8 practical tips to deal with depression while traveling
• How to Manage Homesickness When Living Abroad
• Naked and Laughing Hysterically on a Beach in New Zealand
• Violent Food Poisoning at Church in the Mountains of Lebanon
• Why Slow Travel is Essential for Your Mental Health

Depressed in a cottage in the most beautiful country on earth

When travel feels difficult

What happened?

Last month, on a mission to “get away from it all”, I booked a remote cottage around the bend from Lake Hāwea, north of Wānaka.

With a private deck and views of the mountains, I imagined I would do yoga, sip tea, and enjoy the days in holy laziness.

Upon arrival, the place was was sweeter than photos ever could have shown. Alpacas roamed a grassy plane just within view. A private river murmured behind the property. And a fluffy white lamb hopped to me, baying for treats.

The sun streamed through the french doors onto the comfiest mattress, and I felt like I was in a movie.

It was perfect. The stuff of dreams.

Six hours later, I was pacing the small space in total panic about my life, my future, and whether I’ll ever amount to anything.

Toxic comparison and despair

Looking back, I should have realized I’d been triggered when my hosts introduced themselves.

A lovely couple, not much older than me, owned this property. I counted around 12 expensive toys in their garage (including jet skis and a Kombi). And on the main property, through the large windows, I spotted a baby chair.

On top of an already difficult few years, this rubbed against an insecurity of mine.

In New Zealand’s housing market, hope recedes that I’ll ever own a home someday. Especially one of such grandeur, much less make profit from it.

At this rate, full of doubt and no parental help, I’d never be able to have a family. My future looked glum and gray and lonely. It’s something I’d been wrestling with for months.

I paced the small space, which now felt stifling. I lied in bed, moved to the couch, and mindlessly snacked, wishing I was back home.

The beauty felt inaccessible to me. I hated the surrounding splendor that beguiled my tormented soul, wondering where I went wrong with my life.

I was convinced I had failed in some cosmic way. At life, and in everything.

The poison of scarcity mindset

Instead of enjoying my trip, I got lost in my head.

All my fears culminated at once, reinforcing themselves through comparison to those I believed were inherently better than me.

I was confronted with an uncomfortable truth… that I measured my worth to that of others, underpinned by a deep belief that I will never be enough. My stomach churned with anxiety and despair.

That’s something no weekend getaway can patch up.

Sometimes travel is difficult

Travel is no cure to the demons in our heads. The belief of enoughness… of abundance and gratitude… this will always be our life’s work, no matter where we are geographically.

It may sound obvious but it’s worth repeating: travel is a good escape, but it doesn’t erase our problems. In fact, sometimes they become amplified, having found space to unleash.

It’s okay that travel is uncomfortable, physically, mentally, spiritually. In fact, I think that’s the point. Travel facilitates growth. And growth is painful.

I may not have enjoyed my retreat fully, but I see the lesson now.

So threatened by other people’s abundance, I failed to recognize my own. My ability to travel and book beautiful places. My car that worked 10 hours to get me down here. A bag full of my coziest socks and teas.

Travel is no shortcut to heal our deepest wounds. It’s merely an opportunity. To reconnect and realign. To use the empty time to soothe and cradle ourselves through enriching activities. And to release expectations that life should be sunshine and rainbows.

How to utilize your travels/location to soothe yourself

So if travel doesn’t cure our wounds, what’s the point? It’s something I’ve been wrangling with and here is what I’ve unraveled so far.

New vistas don’t “fix” us. Beautiful places don’t cure loneliness. Epic views don’t provide solutions to our plaguing questions. Sometimes it all just gets worse.

But we can utilise travel as a balm for our aching soul. It’s important to be able to slow down. To be cradled by nature’s quiet and receive her love. Even if it cracks us open, it’s an opportunity to sit with ourselves. To love our demons, and understand they bear no evil. To thank all our ugliest parts for trying to protect us.

At the end of the day, this is why I have this blog. Why slow travel means everything to me.

I don’t travel to “get away from it all”. I travel to become one with all my warring selves. To come home to myself, even when I’ve set that home on fire.

At the end of the day, there was a lesson in the paradox of being depressed in a cottage in the most beautiful country on earth. And I felt it was important to share that lesson.

I hope it resonates.