the art of traveling

lessons learned through 19 days in New Zealand

All week, I’ve been waking up in the middle of the night, feeling as if I’m moving or rocking— like I’m on a boat. Maybe it’s because I’ve been on six different boats in the past several weeks, for long periods of time, or because the van we lived in had zero shock absorption and my body is exhausted by the constant vertigo and motion sickness of both. Once the disorientation fades, I have the joy of remembering that I’m home, in Charleston, in my own bed— after spending 20 days across the world visiting the one place I didn’t think I’d ever get to: New Zealand. It always felt too distant, too far, too impossible. (And if I’m being honest, I never thought I’d be able to stomach that long of a plane ride) Now that it’s behind me, it all feels a bit like a fever dream. I’m writing this now to help bring it all back to reality.

Traveling and Vacation feel like two very different things. Maybe I’m wrong?Vacationing tends to be more about relaxation, leisure, and re-charging. The unwind is slow and steady, and the accommodation and location of choice is often focused on comfort and convenience.

Vacation, or what we seem to be seeking from it, is a privilege and solace everyone deserves to have. I choose live on the coast of South Carolina because sitting with the ocean is the place I find the most peace. Laying, reading or sleeping in the sun with nothing to do, other than cool down in the waves, is a form of recharge I’ve never been able to find anywhere else. It feels sacred. I take these days as often as I can.

When it comes to paying thousands of dollars to do that elsewhere, I’ve never really had interest in it. And while vacationing and traveling do share the common denominator of escapism, I’ve found myself unable to pull the trigger on the cruise or the all-inclusive resort. Which is kind of hilarious, because it’s what I probably need the most. Maybe it’s because I never really grew up 'vacationing’: our family vacations consisted of long road trips down to the shore, camping, or hiking in upstate New York...and were very modest. I often wonder why now as an adult, I’m more drawn to the same experiences— even when I have the choice of a more convenient or less chaotic stay.

And part of that, deep down, is that I become very restless and bored when I’m forced to sit still in one place for too long… especially a place I’ve never been before. I’ll always find a way to become curious about what we aren’t doing or what we aren’t seeing— what’s around us just beyond the fence of a hotel resort or beach club.

Unfortunately for me, I enjoy paying to travel and usually come back much more exhausted than when I left. (exhaustion and fulfilled can very much coincide and there is a learning curve that comes with that in all things) I will cram in as much as humanely possible, to see as much as I can, and to be completely immersed in it. I need to be around new people in campsites or hostels, I need to hike through the flora and fauna and swim in the bodies of water and drink the local coffee and food. I like to be uncomfortable, and challenge my thoughts on the world and what I deem possible for the amount of time I have while living on it. There’s so much to see and so very little time. The excitement of that thought overrides the discomfort of it all, every single time. I will sleep on floors if it means I get to experience it. I’ve never found the thrill that traveling brings anywhere else in my life. (besides maybe painting)

We knew our trip to New Zealand was going to be filled with certain discomfort in order to make it happen financially. We chose to rent a low-budget camper van and have the four of us live in it for the entire 19 days— with very little space and a very underwhelming sleeping situation. But each of us travel with the same intention: the curiosity outweighs the discomfort.

And so we picked up our shitty van and hit the road on the North Island, just south of Auckland.

Each time I’m able to be fully immersed in it, my life changes..because it forces me to pay attention.

Here are some lessons from the trip, directly from my phone journal, jotted on the plane ride home:

Visiting Hobbiton in the North Island, the Lord of the Rings Set: Inner child healing is an important part of the itinerary; perhaps the most important part.

I’m 7 years old and I cannot sleep, so my dad is perched up on the ground of my bedside. There’s just enough light leaking from the hallway for him to see the words on the page as he reads them aloud for me. He builds a world in my mind; one of magic and evil and humanness… one with rolling green hills and elaborate city dwellings over rivers and meadows… and a darkness they must defeat. For years with these books, I create movies in my mind as the picture unfolds in vivid detail— lulling me to sleep.

The Lord of The Rings storyline will always be interwoven with my childhood. And my creativity.

My Dad used to show me photos of New Zealand, of the place they were filming this dreamscape and making it come to life. I never imagined ever being able to actually go there and see it for myself— it felt too big, too distant, too far.

Walking through Hobbiton that day, I realized it was about so much more than going to see the set of a movie.

Much of my life this past year has been filled with outer and inner turmoil, causing me to lose confidence in myself and my work. It forced me away from the studio. It left me face down on my bathroom floor, in the hospital bed, begging for the tides to turn. Since getting back on my feet, I’ve been hearing this inner ping or knowing to focus on my inner child. Go back there and get her, it often says. My work has gravitated toward it, and my days have begun doing the same. I’m working to heal the part of me that is too terrified to be seen, too terrified of being abandoned, too terrified of taking up space or having needs and emotions. This unhealed past is holding me back, in both my life and my work and my healing. And so I invite her to the table, give her the seat she was never allowed to have, and let her speak.

Since New Zealand, according to my inner child, meant nothing more than LOTR and childhood magic, it was top of the list to visit the set of Hobbiton (even though time and location wise, it was inconvenient.) Luckily, Bri and Rachel are also big LOTR enthusiasts, so they had no problem booking the tour and purchasing cloaks to run around the shire in— pretending to be little hobbitisissss.

When I am able to remove the cultural voices of something being weird, or stupid, or unimportant, I remember my own inner voice is most important. It guides all that I do and stand for in this life. Without it, I go further and further off-course. Without it, I disappoint myself, I lose myself. I also remember that being able to listen to my Dad read these elaborate stories aloud, and create full dreamscapes in my mind, is the same way I can create something out of nothing with my own work. It is the way I had no blueprint for my life, but was able to build it from scratch. The creative building blocks were being formed, even there. Finding comfort and safety and nostalgia is something to be celebrated, especially in this complex world of adulting, and there is no shame to hold.

I geeked out over the details of the houses on set, being able to see Bilbo’s pipe on the bench, or walk down the same path that Frodo runs and jumps onto Gandalf’s cart when entering the shire. There are many places this set has the power to bring people. But mine may be a little different.

I am transported back to the safest and truest place in my childhood, one where I am just a girl and no one has hurt me yet and I am listening to my Dad share his favorite story with me— perhaps the greatest act of love you can gift a little girl with a wild imagination and fear of the dark. To simply be that little girl who is enthralled by magic and obsessively absorbing it, learning to alchemize it into something more…

She hasn’t yet been punished for it, or othered by it, or manipulated by it. She is just a girl witnessing magic and the world has not yet got in the way.

I need that girl to come back into the driver’s seat of my life, and coax her back into the studio with me. She’s the most important possibility of surviving this chaotic, fucked-up and complex life. She is my lifeline.

Roys Peak, Sealy Tarns and Gertrude Saddle: South Island Hikes: Your body will present limitations and it’s okay to celebrate them, rather than shame yourself.

I’ve been lucky enough to have a body that allows me to challenge it.

Physical activity is fulfilling for me, especially in the scenario of hiking. The breath in, paired with the step forward— guide you into a meditative state— one where you are fully entwined with the natural world. There are no distractions, and usually for me, not many limitations. There will be challenges of course, but that difficulty is always a part of that meditation for me. How far can my body take me once my mind is out of the way? I’m always impressed by the outcome and the release found in the mind. It feels very similar to flow state.

This trip, hiking was much different. I didn’t recognize the body I stood in.

Not only did I struggle immensely with pace and muscle weakness, I also found myself much further behind the group— holding everyone back. After a grueling 10.5 mile with an intense elevation gain in full sun… I had to start getting honest with myself. It was not only difficult, but felt harmful. I was dizzy, my legs were giving out from under me, the shin splints feeling like shards of glass with each step.

This was not the body I had pre-surgery, and If I was being truly honest… it felt like I was doing more harm than good.

I was forced to start listening to my body and honoring it.

Something that has never, ever come natural to me.

My surgery and it’s journey beyond created a boundary that I was forced to follow. A way to practice giving my physical form compassion for what it had been through, and was still working to heal from.

For the next several days, I made a promise to myself to remove the ego from it all. My ego was the thing screaming at me to keep going, even though I was blacking out on the edge of a cliff face. My ego was the voice telling me how pathetic I was, even though my legs were jello and my chest felt like a brick of cement. I didn’t want my ego to be the reason I pushed my body beyond the point of no return. And so even though it broke my heart, I turned around halfway on three more of the hikes in New Zealand, on my dream hiking trip. I did not summit two of the hikes I had looked forward to for most of my life. Hikes that I will probably never have the chance to finish again, at another time, across the world. Swallowing your pride takes practice, telling your ego to fuck off takes surrender, and I got a mouth full of it there.

I fully believe life will continue serving us what we need until we actually learn the lesson we are avoiding. Two emergency surgeries later, I’ve finally learned that punishing my body does more harm than good. That disassociating from the pain, exhaustion and alarm systems it sends me, will only take precious time away from— or even off of—of your life. I’ve finally embodied that I have a body. A body worth caring for. It is okay— no it is powerful—to have limitations and be proud of the few thousand feet you did accomplish… to celebrate that you’re truly standing there at all.

The first few days were difficult, feeling as if I had let myself down. I have since realized just how empowering this experience was- to finally listen to my body and make a decision to support it. For perhaps, the very first time in my life

Five months ago, I could not sit up on my own. Today, I hiked 5 miles in New Zealand, surrounded by the most magical meadows and stunning vistas— with my legs sore and my body depleted. and if I’m the luckiest person in the world, I’ll get to wake up again tomorrow and do it all again.

It’s difficult to feel disappointed when you say it like that.

The views, even not fully from the top, were truly unbelievable all on their own:

The two hikes I was able to summit:

Bluff Great White Shark Dive: Our anxiety leads us to believe we cannot physically stand to be in it another second. But sometimes all we need, is one more deep breath. And then one more

This one also leads back to the mind body connection. But more so about how limitations of the mind can be far worse than our physical hesitations if we allow it to run our lives. How anxiety and fear can convince us that we are so much less than we actually are.

I’ve always been a ‘push through it’ kind of girl. It’s how I was raised. So for the last decade, when my body is tired, when I’m suffering from insomnia, when I feel pain, when I have nothing left to give— I disassociate and push through. It’s gotten me into some really tricky situations with my health. And the latest one was no different… except it could have taken my life. I made a vow to myself to stop pushing my body so violently and do something radical instead: learn to care for it. To let myself sleep in, stop any form of HIIT workout, stop working 17 hour days. Eat any form of food with no restriction. I needed to heal.

When the girls decided we would be going cage diving in New Zealand, I hesitated, thinking about this newly formed relationship with my body. Should I really put it through the stress of being in freezing cold water, can my heart and lungs handle it? What if the stress triggers something horrible I can’t recover from? I told the girls to book me as a sight-seer on the boat, that I felt my body wasn’t up for it just yet. They appreciated and respected my boundary. (Which is why friends like this are so important)

Fast forward to our very-cold and very-early check in on the boat at 6am, we drive through the forgotten little fishing town of Bluff and sign in before getting out on the water. Excitement fluttered in my belly as everyone began being fitted for wetsuits, my curiosity begging me to be brave and give it a try. You can trust yourself, I remember my inner voice saying, being nervous is not the same thing as being incapable.

What many people do not talk about - with emergency medical situations- is the trauma you live with long after the event. I’ve had my fair share of diagnoses and two emergency surgeries now; each one being life threatening. After my appendix ruptured in September, I found myself fixating on my bodily functions. Is my heart rate too fast? What’s the pain in my leg, could it be cancer? After one too many close calls, my mind began doing the one thing it could to remain in control and prepare for every possible scenario. The problem with that, is that it will prevent you from living your life. It sucks the air out of the room, your lungs, your areas of curiosity and adrenaline and fulfillment. You become hyper-fixated on death, and your fear of it. It takes ahold of your entire life.

Standing there on the boat, I reminded my body that it could trust being uncomfortable, that anxiety would not win today. And I asked for a wetsuit.

After all that, I ended up actually being the first in the cage that day, in order to complete the scuba safety training. It was freezing, I couldn’t feel my body, and as they wrapped the weight around my belly to prepare me for the cage— the fear was intense.

What if you have a panic attack down there? What if you can’t breathe? What if your heart stops or you get hypothermia or your feet get stuck in the cage? What if your mask takes on water? What if you pass out? What if—

I take a deep breath and remind my brain. My body has lived through much worse. My body has survived tumors and car crashes and trauma and has healed itself and known when I’ve gone too far. Right here, in this moment, I have not gone far enough.

And so I step out onto the cage and smile up at my best friends, who are beaming.

Your body is safe. Your mind was built for this. How far can we go?

To continue reading my lessons from New Zealand, would you consider upgrading to paid?

For 6 dollars a month, you’ll be getting monthly writings from me, studio updates.. and much more (coming soon). This monthly subscription allows me to be compensated for my work, and work towards my much larger goal of writing the first draft of my book x THANK U, ILYSM.