How I got into slow travel: a story

This is the story of how I found slow travel. Or rather how it found me. And how I used it as a tool, among other things, to get out of a panic disorder.

When I moved to New Zealand, I thought I’d be fixed. But the opposite happened. Anxiety and depression worsened to a degree that tested my ability to cope. 

I didn’t realise at the time I’d entered a phase of reconnection… albeit painfully. 

Before I knew what slow travel was, it started as a coping mechanism at my partner’s suggestion. It was his procedure when I couldn’t get out of my head… lost at sea, nearly unreachable to him.

This is a highly personal post. Enjoy the story of how I got into slow travel and how it brought me to reconnection which cleansed me of all my inner sludge and enhanced my wellbeing.

Read also:

• 8 ways New Zealand is the best place on earth for slow travel
• 10 best small towns in New Zealand for slow travel
• Why slow travel is essential for your wellbeing
• Crying at the mountains in Wanaka, New Zealand
• Should you move to New Zealand? 10 questions to help you decide

A quick note: slow travel and slow living are a lifestyle, and it takes time to get there

I already mentioned that moving to New Zealand wasn’t the solution. At least, not in the “quick fix” way we demand when we behave dramatically.

Change takes time. It includes an identity crisis that makes you feel like you’re unraveling. That’s why sometimes, it feels like moving backward. I wanted to include that here in case you’re going through something similar.

Drastic decisions are less the solution, more the unearthing of inner conflict we should be addressing. And we get to choose whether we’re brave enough to answer the call.

Then, slowly… day by day, minute by minute… we change our lifestyle.

Be patient. Growth is slow and painful. That’s what makes it rewarding.

Travelling the length of New Zealand… in unexpected places

After arriving in New Zealand, I travelled on my own for awhile. Just me, myself, and I, entirely in control.

Then I met someone. I waddled up to his house in Wellington, asking for the room I’d rented. Shaun was “Kiwi as, bro” and I was entirely fascinated by him.

I invited him to join me on my travels. We filed into his car and hit the road for three months. We travelled New Zealand from top to bottom… Cape Reinga to Fiordland. I thought I’d be back in the States by year’s end so I had to maximise.

On the road, my fascination with Shaun continued. Despite a past that made mine look like a picnic, he was incredibly grounded. 

And he had what I learned later many Kiwis had… a sense of awe and connection to the earth. While my brain festered on solving non-existent problems, Shaun caressed leaves and watched the birds.

He derailed my itinerary, taking me to remote places. A hidden beach, an empty forest. Unmarked roads weaving through mountains. 

Read about one of those adventures here: Naked and laughing on a Beach in New Zealand

We spent long days doing… nothing. Immersed in scenic nature, it was so quiet. I knew what I was meant to be feeling. Peace. Reverence. But it didn’t land that way.

It became clear to me that Shaun and I were made of different stuff.

Unsettled, I decided we would return to Wellington. Jaunting around had been fun, but it was time to rejoin reality.

Pamela, meet panic disorder

I got a job in the city. Thrust back into a life of 9-5, I started processing what I’d done.

There I was, halfway across the world, with no family or friends, hardly any belongings, and I’d managed to end up in the same place I was before. 

There was also this new culture around me… one of slow living, open kindness, sandals in the office.

I quickly realised embracing a new culture had been romanticised in my books. Change can be incredibly confronting. I learned new things and, with new eyes, looked back on my life. Unearthing all that trauma. Remembering suppressed memories.

I went into shock.

One day, on the bus, I had a panic attack.

After that, they kept coming.

Settling into a new life of agoraphobia

On the outside, a girl went to work and chatted with colleagues and went home to her boyfriend.

On the inside, anxiety delt lashings on the minute and I often hid in toilets to hyperventilate on my own, thinking if I passed out, at least I’d be hidden. In the evenings, I sat immobile on the couch, literally paralysed by thoughts.

My life revolved around preventing the next panic attack. I didn’t see friends. I barely left home.

It kept me up at night, wondering how I was meant to chase my dreams with this handicap. I lost my personality to it. It felt like there was no way out.

I despaired. It was really hard.

Accidentally finding slow travel

Here’s how I fell in love with Wellington.

Shaun, being a concerned partner, said he’d like to go for a drive. With both of us back at work, he wanted to recreate the magic of our time on the road.

He drove us everywhere, cruising aimlessly around his hometown. I watched out the window as undulating hills, sea cliffs, and sparkling beaches passed us by.

For months, we did this.

In the beginning, it was fine. It was what I’d felt sometimes on the first road trip: numbness. The understanding that my environment was beautiful, but feeling nothing about it.

But overtime, in my state of vulnerability, something started to shift. I latched on to the environment in a way that felt like waking up… the first layer of reconnection.

We explored every inch of Wellington. I cried often.

Later, we bought an SUV big enough for a bed. We parked up among nature for the night, equipped with music, food, and books. I watched the rain. Caught sunrises and sunsets. Learned the different birds.

Earth was beautiful. Peaceful.

I felt all wrong inside and I started picturing that beauty seeping inward. It was an act of exiting myself, focused on the surrounding stimuli while serenity filled me.

I didn’t realise at the time that I’d cracked the code to slow travel.

Over the years, we returned to those places from the first road trip. It felt like seeing them for the first time… literally… and I’d lose my breath from the beauty of it all.

I would ask, “We’ve been here before?” Finally I was able to meet Shaun on that plane. That made him happy.

This is how we travel now. And what I talk about incessantly to anyone who will listen.

Six philosophies of how slow travel helped with my mental health

I’m not a psychologist. But I am a writer, and I spent years unpacking why slow travel feels so nourishing. Below is the product of those thoughts, workshopped through the years and guided by my own research.

Slow travel is being slow of body and of mind. Having openness to enable a more enriching experience.

Slow travel is also about reconnection. With people, with nature, within ourselves. Reconnection is the best antidote I’ve found for anxiety, overwhelm, or grief.

Here are the six philosophies I landed as to why slow travel (among other things) helped improve my mental health.

1. Slow travel enables you to access the present moment… the act of getting out of our heads and into our bodies.
2. Slow travel is a guide to connect more deeply with nature. It’s the journey of understanding not just that the earth is worth protecting, but why it’s worth protecting, how important it is for our wellbeing. Nature is a part of us and we’re a part of it.
3. Slow travel gives opportunities to connect with others… to foster a sense of community and recognise we are never alone and the universe is a kind place.
4. Slow travel forces us to unlearn behaviours that aren’t serving us… dismantling self-limiting beliefs of the “hustle” which is more often just outrunning the feeling that we’ll never be enough.
5. Slow travel makes you feel like you belong everywhere: you start feeling like everything is connected and that home is something you carry with you.
6. Slow travel teaches us gratitude. We wake up to the abundance in the world. There’s too many things to see and do and consume. It’s impossible to do it all, and we shouldn’t be trying. The simple things make life worth living.