My next trip took me to St. Augustine and Jacksonville, Florida—two places that somehow managed to slow me down in different ways. St. Augustine felt like a pause button. Jacksonville felt like a deep exhale. Together, they gave me a rhythm I didn’t realize I’d been craving. Traveling always messes with my sense of time, but in the best way. Days feel longer without feeling heavier. They stretch instead of stack. Back home, time feels chopped up before I even get out of bed—appointments, reminders, things I need to remember to remember. In Florida, time felt looser. Mornings didn’t rush me. Evenings didn’t feel like a countdown.
At the beginning of the trip, my brain was still loud. I was thinking about directions, plans, what was next. Even in a beautiful place, I don’t shut that part of myself off immediately. But somewhere between walking the streets of St. Augustine and spending long, quiet moments near the water in Jacksonville, something shifted. The noise softened. St. Augustine has a way of doing that. Maybe it’s the history layered into everything, or the way the streets seem to invite wandering instead of hurrying. I found myself walking slower there without even trying. Looking up more. Letting myself get a little lost. There was no rush to get anywhere because just being there felt like enough.
Jacksonville felt different, but in a way that worked. It felt open. Spacious. Like the kind of place where you don’t have to constantly be “on.” I spent time just sitting—by the water, in quiet spaces, letting the day unfold instead of planning it to death. I didn’t realize how tightly wound I’d been until I wasn’t anymore. That’s when I know I’ve really settled into a trip—when the place stops feeling temporary. When I stop thinking about what day it is. When I wake up and don’t immediately feel disoriented. When I know where things are without thinking about it. It stops being a destination and starts feeling like a small, alternate version of my life.
The mornings were my favorite part. In St. Augustine, the mornings felt old and quiet, like the town itself hadn’t fully woken up yet. Coffee tasted better when I drank it slowly, without checking the time. In Jacksonville, the mornings felt expansive. Bright. Calm. I let myself sit longer than I normally would. I stared out the windows. I thought about nothing and everything at the same time. When I am at home, mornings are functional. Even on days when I don’t have much going on, there’s still this underlying pressure to be productive, to get moving, to not waste time. In Florida, that pressure faded. I wasn’t trying to optimize my day. I was just living it.
Traveling also makes me nicer to myself, and I noticed that again on this trip. I rested when I was tired instead of pushing through. I ate when I was hungry. I walked without tracking steps or worrying about efficiency. I stopped treating exhaustion like something to power through. Somewhere between St. Augustine’s narrow streets and Jacksonville’s open spaces, my thoughts rearranged themselves. Things I thought were urgent suddenly weren’t. Worries that felt loud back home softened. I started to see where I rush for no reason, where I fill silence just to avoid sitting with myself. And then, like it always does, the last day arrived.
The final day of the trip felt heavier in a quiet way. I moved through it more carefully, already aware that everything I was doing was about to become a memory. Packing took longer than it should have. Not because I had more stuff, but because I didn’t want to rush the ending. I noticed details I hadn’t paid attention to before—the way the room sounded when it was quiet, the quality of the light, the feeling of sitting on the bed one last time. Even meals felt different. I ate slower, not because the food was extraordinary, but because I knew it was the last time I’d eat here, in this state of mind.
Eventually, I finished packing. I set my bags outside the door and stood there for a moment, longer than necessary. Closing the door behind me felt like closing a chapter. I already knew I was going to miss it—not just the places, but the version of myself that existed there. I knew what was waiting for me back home. The pace would pick up. The noise would come back. Life would ask more of me again. And while there’s comfort in routine, there’s also a kind of loss when you leave a slower rhythm behind.
But traveling changes me anyway, even when I go back to my regular life. What it really gives me isn’t escape—it’s contrast. Being in St. Augustine and Jacksonville showed me another way to move through my days. A reminder that life doesn’t have to feel frantic to be full. That I don’t need to rush everything to make it meaningful.
Coming home always takes adjustment. Everything feels louder at first. Faster. It’s easy to slip back into autopilot, to let the calendar and the noise take over again. But I notice things now that I didn’t before. I notice when I’m rushing for no reason. I notice when I fill silence just because I’m uncomfortable. I notice when I ignore my own need for rest. And sometimes—when I remember how I felt in Florida—I choose to do things differently.
I tried to bring small pieces of the trip home with me. Slower mornings when I can. Sitting without my phone. Walking just to walk. Letting myself pause without explaining why. These aren’t big, dramatic changes, but they matter more than I expect them to. Because the version of me that existed in St. Augustine and Jacksonville didn’t disappear when I left. That version is still here—calmer, more present, more grounded. Traveling didn’t create me. It just gave me space.
That’s why at the end of a trip. I am always reflecting on the things that happened. I’m not just saying goodbye to a place. I’m acknowledging a version of myself that felt lighter. The goal isn’t to cling to that feeling or chase it endlessly. It’s to learn from it. To remember it when life starts speeding up again. Maybe the point of traveling was never to escape my real life. Maybe it was to remember how I want it to feel. And every time I come home, I try—imperfectly, inconsistently—to carry a little bit of that Florida ease into the days that don’t come with a suitcase.