There’s a moment that keeps happening to me on this trip. I’ll be standing somewhere and realise: no one is going to regulate me here. There’s nobody who’s going to say that’s enough for today, or suggest we head back. I’m going to have to be the one to notice when I’m running on empty and when I’m pretending I’m all right but I’m not. It’s just me and whatever decision I make next.

I’m in Japan recording this, and I’ve been thinking about a day in Kandy, Sri Lanka that I keep coming back to. I was tired. I had booked a full-day private tour because I had heard about Kandy for over 20 years and I didn’t want to miss it. What was supposed to be an enjoyable day kept accumulating weight — the driver wanting to add more stops, me asking myself how much time I had, whether I was missing out, how to make the day count. At one point it started to rain. Everyone else rushed outside to make it to the next thing. I found a seat, took out my book, and read a chapter. The rain was on the roof. And that felt like a gift I gave myself in the middle of a day that had been asking too much.

In this episode:

• What Japan’s sense of order does
• The day in Kandy that became too much
• What the driver said about the sanctuary (and why I went anyway)
• The bats in Kandy
• Depletion vs. expansion
• Borrowed criteria

“There is a difference between being drained because you overrode yourself, and being drained because you lived inside a day that mattered to you.” — Damianne

What does a place ask you to carry?

I keep noticing how much Japan shapes my pace. Not because Japan is telling me what to do, but because the environment itself seems to suggest a tempo. There is a particular kind of order here that I feel in my body. I’m aware of where I’m standing, the timing of things, even when I’m not consciously thinking about it. It can feel like relief. It can also feel like weight. Both are true.

This is making me think about how I choose where to go, because the thing is: when we travel, we’re not empty vessels. We don’t arrive in a place ready for whatever comes. We arrive with everything we’re already holding. And every place asks something of us in return. When those two things fit, everything becomes easier. When they don’t, travel gets draining, even if you’re grateful to be there.

What happened in Kandy when she was tired?

I had been working eight-hour weekdays. This wasn’t just a vacation; it was me living my life while travelling, and by the time I got to the weekend I wasn’t rested. I didn’t fully admit this to myself at first. I kept thinking: I can do both. And the reason I booked the tour wasn’t just logistics. It was emotional. I wanted to feel like I was really in Sri Lanka, not just watching it from a hotel room. So I compromised by booking a private tour, telling myself I could slow it down or speed it up as I needed.

The shape of the day wasn’t what I expected. The driver kept wanting to bring me to more places because he thought I might be missing out. He didn’t quite understand that I was intentionally removing things. I could feel myself asking: where are we going next? How much time do we have? Am I going to miss something if I don’t go there? There was too much cognitive weight to what was supposed to be an enjoyable day.

What is the difference between depletion and expansion?

There’s a moment in Kandy I keep returning to. A driver advised me not to bother visiting a nature sanctuary near the city. He said there wasn’t much to see, just some stray dogs. What he was using to measure that was visibility: obvious payoffs, things worth photographing. What I was using was different: nature, greenery, quiet, being under trees, the kind of nourishment that doesn’t photograph well. I went. And at one point in a small museum there, it started to rain and everyone else rushed out. I found a seat, took out my book, and read until I was ready to leave. I walked back to the tuk-tuk in a light drizzle with a sweater over my head, one I’d been planning to drop at the laundromat. That detail made me smile then and it still does now. It’s not the kind of thing that would appear in a travel reel. It’s exactly the kind of thing that adds texture.

Expansion doesn’t always mean doing more. Sometimes it means being there reading a book when everyone else leaves. Sometimes it means exploring a place that isn’t on any list. Sometimes it means making the day shorter and not seeing everything. What matters is alignment with who you are and what you actually need.

What does it mean to use your own measurement system?

I also cancelled the hot air balloon ride in Laos the night before. I had planned it, researched it, and then realised I didn’t want to wake up at 5 AM. I had seen the view. I had watched the balloons in the air at sunset. I didn’t need to be in one for this trip to count. Making that decision was such a relief.

The thing I keep coming back to is how easy it is to borrow someone else’s criteria. To measure your experience by what looks impressive, what’s on Instagram, what you feel like you should do. And to quietly put what would actually nourish you as secondary. I don’t want to do that on my trips. I want travel to fit into my actual life — my actual body, my actual capacity, what I’m already carrying. That’s the part women don’t always give themselves permission to consider.

A small invitation

Think about what you’re holding right now. Not what you wish were true, but what’s actually true. Then think about what you’d want to put down and what you’d want to pick up. Do you need restoration or expansion right now? What kind of stretch would feel like growth, and what kind would feel like depletion? Write down two or three things. You don’t need to change anything yet. Just notice.

Join the community

And if you want a place to explore these questions more slowly, with other women who are thinking about solo travel in this season of life, you’re welcome in the Skool community. It’s a space to talk honestly about what comes up, without pressure to be brave or get it right.