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For a long time, travel gave my life shape. Moving between coasts and countries brought structure and momentum—an itinerary to follow, places to be, people to meet, ground to cover. At one point, I took 45 flights in a single year, and it felt less like excess and more like proof that I was living fully. Travel delivered novelty, inspiration, and connection—but it also offered something even more compelling: direction. When you’re in motion, it’s easy to feel like you know where you’re headed.
More recently, I came across an idea that stopped me short—that movement, luxury, and constant stimulation can sometimes masquerade as meaning. It made immediate sense. Travel hands you a built-in agenda: reservations to keep, landmarks to see, plans to execute. There’s very little empty space, and even less room to ask what you actually want or need. For me, the cost showed up gradually—fatigue that lingered longer after each trip, a nervous system that struggled to settle, and the realization that I was often more present in anticipation than in my everyday life.
How to Find Joy Exactly Where You Are
So instead of planning my next destination, I chose a different experiment: a low-travel year. Not as a rejection of curiosity or adventure, but as an intentional pause—one rooted in staying home and paying closer attention. In 2026, I’m choosing to remain largely grounded in Portland and the Pacific Northwest, exploring what it means to find awe, growth, and meaning without constant movement. What I’ve discovered so far is this: staying put doesn’t strip life of purpose—it asks you to create it more consciously.
Why I Chose a Low-Travel Year
Choosing a low-travel year wasn’t a reaction to burnout as much as a recalibration of priorities. I noticed that even trips I genuinely loved—those filled with beauty, culture, and connection—were asking more of me than they once had. Recovery stretched longer. Transitions felt heavier. The inspiration was still there, but it came paired with a level of depletion I could no longer ignore.
Slowing down also brought unexpected clarity around how I wanted to live day to day. When travel is frequent, it becomes easy to shape your life around what’s temporary—planning for departures, justifying indulgences, postponing self-care until you’re “back.” Choosing a low-travel year gave me space to invest more fully in what actually holds me up: my home, my health, my creative work, and the relationships I’m present for 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. Without a trip on the calendar, different questions surfaced: What makes my days feel full when nothing new is scheduled? Where does novelty come from when I’m not seeking it elsewhere? A low-travel year felt like an invitation to deepen rather than disperse—to let meaning grow from attention instead of motion.
The Costs of Constant Travel
For a long time, I treated the fatigue that followed travel as a reasonable tradeoff—temporary, even a little romantic. But when trips stacked back-to-back, the toll became harder to dismiss. Emotionally, there was very little room to integrate experiences before moving on. Each return home felt abbreviated, each departure a little more rushed.
There’s also the physical reality of constant movement. Airports, time changes, unfamiliar beds, and continuous stimulation keep the body on alert. Even joyful travel is rarely restorative. Over time, I found myself craving predictability—not out of boredom, but because my nervous system needed something to settle into.
Then there’s the financial cost. When travel becomes habitual, expenses blur into the background—flights booked casually, accommodations framed as “worth it,” experiences justified because they’re meaningful. Individually, none of it feels irresponsible. Collectively, it shapes what you have less room for: long-term investments, consistency in care, and the kinds of choices that support everyday life.
Naming these costs wasn’t about rejecting travel altogether. It was about seeing how easily constant motion can erode stability—and understanding why staying home, intentionally, began to feel not like a limitation, but a form of care.
How Staying Home Restores Energy
What surprised me most about staying home wasn’t boredom—it was relief. Without constant forward motion, my days began to feel more spacious, even when they were full. Energy stopped being something I had to recover and became something I could actually build.
Staying home restored energy in small, cumulative ways. Mornings felt less rushed. Evenings stretched out instead of collapsing into exhaustion. So much mental bandwidth—once consumed by logistics and planning—was suddenly available for daily life.
There was also a return to routine. Regular movement. Familiar meals. My creativity became steadier, not sparked by novelty but sustained by repetition. Instead of searching for inspiration elsewhere, I found it arriving naturally—on neighborhood walks, at the farmer’s market, and in conversations that unfolded slowly over time.
Staying home didn’t shrink my world. It stabilized it.
How to Find Awe Wherever You Are
A low-travel year has taught me that awe doesn’t disappear when you stop moving—it just shows up closer to home. These are the simple, repeatable ways I’ve been cultivating curiosity and expansion without leaving my home.
1. Return to the Same Place on Purpose. Choose one spot—a park, coffee shop, walking route—and visit it regularly. Familiarity creates depth. You begin to notice a change.
2. Plan One Solo Outing Each Week. Travel often builds in alone time. To replace it, I schedule one solo activity—a walk, a museum visit, lunch by myself—and treat it as non-negotiable.
3. Explore Locally, Like It’s New. Visit a neighborhood you rarely spend time in. Learn the history of a place you pass every day. Remember: curiosity doesn’t require distance.
4. Let the Season Shape Your Plans. Instead of planning around productivity, I plan around light and weather. Longer walks on bright days. Earlier nights when it’s dark.
5. Create Anticipation at Home. Weekly dinners, monthly outings, personal projects—having something ahead on the calendar changes how the present moment feels.
A Weekly Inspiration Framework
One thing travel does well is create momentum. In a low-travel year, I’ve found it helpful to recreate that structure—without overloading my schedule.
1. One Anchor Plan. Choose one thing to look forward to each week: a walk, a workout class, or maybe dinner with a friend.
2. One Moment of Curiosity. A visit to the movie theater, a chapter of my book, a lecture, a documentary—something that stretches the mind.
3. One Intentional Night In. Plan it like a night out: what you’ll cook, read, watch, and when you’ll unplug.
4. One Physical Reset. Movement without an agenda—walking, stretching, yoga.
5. One Reflection Check-In. A few minutes of journaling to note what felt good, what drained you, and what you want more of next week.
Choosing Stillness as a Season
A low-travel year isn’t about shrinking your life. For me, it’s been 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 the problem. I still love it. But I’ve learned how easily movement can stand in for meaning, how full calendars can disguise exhaustion, and how often I was outsourcing my sense of aliveness to the next destination. Staying home has asked something different of me: attention, presence, and patience. Not always glamorous—but deeply stabilizing.
This year isn’t about saying no forever. It’s about saying yes to a season of rooting down, noticing what’s already here, and trusting that growth doesn’t always require a boarding pass. If you’re feeling tired, untethered, or just craving more ground beneath your feet, maybe a low-travel year isn’t a retreat at all—but a return to what you need most.