Later that afternoon, I followed a trail that led up a hill. Every step felt like shedding a layer of stress. The higher I climbed, the more the view opened up. At one point, I stopped, turned around, and gasped — a panoramic view of the ocean stretched far beyond the cliffs. The sea sparkled like it had swallowed the sun. I could hear the soft roar of the waves meeting the rocks below. It was raw. It was powerful. It was exactly what my heart needed.
The journey started early in the morning. I hopped on a bus bound for the countryside, not even caring if I had exact plans. All I knew was that I was headed toward a place where mountains met the sea. I kept the window open just enough to feel the cool air brush against my skin. For the first time in a while, I didn’t scroll through my phone — I just watched trees blur past, the sunlight dancing on leaves, and hills rolling in the distance.
Hours later, I arrived at a quiet town nestled between lush mountains. It wasn’t touristy or crowded. It was humble, untouched — like a hidden gem meant to be stumbled upon. I checked into a small cottage owned by a sweet old couple who smiled like they knew exactly what I came for: rest.
The cottage had a balcony that overlooked a vast green mountain. I could hear birds singing, and in the far distance, the faint crash of waves. I stood there for minutes, letting the wind comb through my hair and take away the mental clutter. I didn’t say anything. I just felt.
I sat on a rock and watched the sun begin its slow descent. The sky turned into art — shades of orange, pink, and purple bleeding into each other like a watercolor painting. I found myself whispering prayers. Not desperate ones, just grateful ones. “Thank You for bringing me here. For the peace. For this moment.”
That night, back at the cottage, I slept with the windows open. The wind rustled through the leaves, and the distant sound of the ocean was like a lullaby. I felt safe. I felt free. No alarms. No noise. Just nature doing its thing, and me being lucky enough to witness it.
The next morning, I woke up before sunrise. The world was still. Even the birds hadn’t started singing yet. I wrapped myself in a blanket and went to the balcony again. Slowly, light broke through the clouds and painted the sky with hope. I sipped coffee in silence, smiling. Sometimes, healing doesn’t come in loud breakthroughs — sometimes, it comes in quiet mornings like this.
Later in the day, I explored a nearby waterfall. The trek was muddy but fun, and at the end of the path, there it was — cascading like silver threads down a rocky wall, pooling into a crystal-clear basin below. I dipped my feet in, then couldn’t resist jumping in fully clothed. It was freezing, but I laughed like a child. Who cared? In that moment, I remembered who I was before life got heavy — joyful, present, light.
That whole trip wasn’t about escaping reality. It was about resetting my soul. I didn’t bring back expensive souvenirs, but I came home with something better — clarity, joy, and a renewed sense of self. I realized I don’t need to wait for burnout to rest. Rest should be a rhythm, not a rescue.
Now, every time I feel the pressure building again, I close my eyes and return to that place in my mind — where the mountain touches the sky, where waves crash like a song, and where the wind tells you: “You’re okay. Just breathe.”
If you’re reading this and feeling tired too, maybe this is your sign.
You don’t have to go far. Sometimes, peace is just a bus ride away — waiting in a small cottage, a mountain path, or a wave’s embrace. Go where your soul feels light. Go where you remember who you are. 🌿🌊☀️
Sometimes we think rest is only allowed when we’re already exhausted or broken. But the truth is, we need rest before we burn out. This quiet journey to the mountains and sea wasn’t just about taking photos or seeing a beautiful place. It was about finding space to reconnect with myself and with God. I realized how noisy my mind had become, how I was running on autopilot just to keep up with life’s demands.
But up there in the stillness, where the waves danced and the wind spoke in whispers, I found peace again. I didn’t need anyone to validate it. I didn’t need to do anything “productive.” I just needed to be — and that was enough.