We’ve been in Vietnam for 12 days, and I’d be lying if I said it’s been plain sailing. After the peace we found in Bali, this rhythm of packing up and moving every 4–5 days feels tedious. There was something grounding about our daily yoga practice there, something magical in the stillness that gave our time structure and soul. Now, without that anchor, we find ourselves drifting, disoriented and restless.
We’ve been discussing extensively how to recreate that sense of rootedness while on the move. Our list of places to visit is long, but without a central ritual to return to, the experience begins to feel disjointed. Discombobulated. Most travellers have a home base to reset between journeys, but when that is removed, everything changes. The endless motion gets into your bones.
To regain some of that inner rhythm, we’ve booked a fight and fitness retreat in Thailand before our next yoga stop in August. We know the structure will help us realign. A daily itinerary, a return to introspection, it reminds us why we set out in the first place. This journey isn’t just about places. It’s about remembering ourselves. And right now, we’ve realised that something is missing. When all we do is follow the tourist trail, snapping photos of things we’ve already seen on Google Images, it starts to feel hollow.
I want more than the shot. I want the feeling.
We’ve started making small changes in each place, cooking for ourselves, keeping up with fitness routines, and creating our own little rituals. Taking control of how we feel in a space is as important as what we experience there. What started as a potential travel section within this wider wellness blog has evolved into something else entirely. A personal shift. A movement in how I choose to experience the world. Those who live behind their camera lenses, capturing everything for content, miss something essential, I think. Without looking beyond the frame, you miss the way a place can change you. And, I want it all.
There’s a strange comfort in the familiarity of our packing ritual now. Every few days, we rummage through our suitcases, unravel the hanging toiletries bag, light some incense, fill the fridge with vegetables and settle. Yesterday, we bought a spatula and a sieve, not because we’re moving in, but because these small, missing basics make cooking so unnecessarily complicated. It sounds absurd; we’ve pared down our lives to the bare essentials, yet now we travel with a mini kitchen survival kit. We barely have clothes, but we have a sieve. And honestly, when you’re in a country where the tap water isn’t safe to drink, it becomes the difference between being well and not. The comfort this offers is immeasurable.
We’ve got our pack-up routine down to a fine art: dirty laundry sealed, toiletries rolled, shoes back in their shoe bags, bed made, and dishes washed. Everything returned to its rightful place before we zip up and roll out. Into a Grab. On to the next place. It’s one of the few rhythms that’s become second nature.
I no longer worry about what I have with me. As long as I know where my laptop, passport, and camera are, I’m fine. Everything else is replaceable. The hand I’m holding and the backpack I carry are all I need.
I haven’t worn makeup in four months. I rarely brush my hair. All I care about now is whether I have my yoga mat and a pair of trainers, tools to bring me back to myself. Because right now, this body is the only home I have. I thought I’d be having weekly breakdowns without structure or stability, but so far, I’ve had just one wobble, and it was about leaving behind my working life and the steady paycheck. But that moment would have come regardless of geography. The fear was mine, not the location’s.
The routine of moving has become almost like a symphony. We’re on our seventh accommodation now, and we move with a grace we didn’t have before. Everything flows, like choreography honed over weeks. It’s efficient, but more than that, it’s ours.
But this life, this beautifully chaotic, transient life, also shines a light on what I let control me for far too long. I find it hilarious how I agonised over a sofa for five years. That same sofa now stands on its side in a Melbourne storage unit, and I couldn’t care less. I used to let those things define me. And while I’m not claiming I’ve transcended all attachment, I see it now. How stillness shrinks your world. How, when life gets small, the tiny things start to feel enormous.
Back then, they were important. But now, I just don’t care. Someone else now lives in my home, the one I meticulously painted, and the floors, polished to perfection now have a Labrador puppy running over them. And the more these scenarios fall outside my control, the more I realise I never had any control to begin with. I, like most of us, crafted the illusion of control by keeping everything contained, curated. But that illusion came at the cost of so many other possibilities I couldn’t see at the time.
I know I’ll settle again someday. I’ll find a new home. I’ll repaint some walls and dust off my interior design instincts, but next time, it will be for comfort and peace, not aesthetics. Not to impress, to add in some imaginary meaning to my life. Not to showcase my collection of Italian-made furniture. I never thought I’d say this, but a chair is a chair. Some are more beautiful, sure. But they all serve the same purpose. I had things so beautiful, and expensive I wouldn’t let myself use them. I was so focused on control and appearances, I forgot to enjoy the simple pleasure of just being in a space. That makes me sad.
Now, I sit on a secondhand couch in an apartment that’s hosted hundreds before me. I no longer wonder who designed it. I care if the bed is comfortable, if there’s a gym nearby, if I can walk to the fresh food market. I think about what experiences I can have while I’m here, not what it looks like from the outside.
And somehow, that feels like the real luxury.
So now, I sit in borrowed spaces and let myself truly live in them. Not to curate them. Not to control them. Just to inhabit them, fully, but temporarily.
And maybe that’s the quiet invitation of this type of travel, not just to see more of the world, but to notice what you cling to, what you’re willing to let go of, and what truly makes you feel at home.
If you were to strip it all back, the furniture, the familiar walls, the rituals you didn’t know were holding you, what would remain? What would ground you?
Read more about this journey Inward - Previous Blog
