The Joy of Going Off the Grid
Making space for what truly matters.
May this small corner of the internet be a place for those who celebrate connection, push back from the rush of this time of year, enjoy creativity, and cherish the love of those we hold dear. I’m grateful we share this space.
Lately, my gratitude journal has been getting thicker—and not because I’ve been shopping for a new notebook. It’s because I keep finding more to write down.
There’s something about putting gratitude on paper that makes it real. When I write it down, it slows me down. It asks me to notice. Not the big, showy things, but the quiet ones—a good conversation, a peaceful morning, the feeling of being fully present. If I don’t write them down, they slip past me. And I’ve learned that what we don’t name, we often tend to overlook.
I think about how easy it is to build a life around overconsumption. More things. More noise. More doing. Having everything, yet still feeling restless or unhappy. I have noticed this way too often with friends. Maybe it’s because fullness on the outside doesn’t automatically translate to fullness on the inside.
Gratitude works in the opposite direction—it doesn’t add more, it helps us see what’s already there.
Writing it down matters because it creates a record of enough. It reminds us that joy isn’t something to chase or acquire—it’s something to recognize. And the more I write, the more I realize how little it actually takes for me to feel like the luckiest girl in the world.
Spending several days last week in the beauty of the mountains allowed time for peaceful reflection. No news reports blaring from a screen, no chores to hurry up and finish, no Christmas madness.
I was reminded of what real rest actually feels like. Not the kind where you sit down but keep reaching for your phone—but the kind where your shoulders drop, and you finally exhale.
It wasn’t anything dramatic. I wasn’t living like it was the 19th century. It was the small things. Leaving my phone upstairs without even thinking about it. Eating meals without a screen, seated with those I hold dear—people who shared their joy with us as naturally as they shared their table.
They cooked dinners sourced from a nearby farm that’s been in the same family since 1916, now in its fifth generation. A farm rooted in regenerative farming and sustainable food production, carrying forward a hundred-year-old mission to build community through agriculture. The beef is grass-fed. The pork is pasture-raised. Chickens roam, eggs are gathered, and the food tastes the way intention always does—grounded, honest, and nourishing in more ways than one.
I took walks without a podcast playing in my ears, allowing the quiet to stay quiet. And in that unfilled space, something essential returned.
What surprised me most was how hard that was at first. I hadn’t realized how much I had built my days around constant stimulation—something always playing, pinging, or pulling at my attention. And when we live like that, we end up carrying around a lot of unprocessed emotion. There’s never any space to sort through it, much less understand it.
I realized how rarely I sit long enough by myself to actually hear myself. The real thoughts. The honest feelings. Instead, we drown them out. Over time, all that stimulation creates a kind of numbness, and we start mistaking that numbness for peace.
After a while, the quiet stopped feeling awkward and started feeling like relief. I could feel creativity beginning to stir again, not forced, not scheduled—just showing up. And I remembered something important: when we stay overstimulated for too long, we forget what true rest even feels like.
Sometimes going off the grid isn’t about escaping from the world. It’s about tuning back in to yourself. And in the stillness of those mountain days, without all the usual clutter, I felt something shift. Not dramatically. Just enough to remember myself again and feel renewed.
One more thing:
Love this - from James Clear, the author of “Atomic Habits.”
“Reflection requires stillness.
One cost of rushing from thing to thing is that you lose the space to think. Hard work matters, but nonstop motion often hides a quiet truth: you could have used your time better.
If you never pause, you confuse activity with effectiveness. Make time to think. Walk outside. Sit quietly. Create space. Then move again, but this time on purpose.”
Footnote: Thank you, “Healthy Seniors.
The Practice of Enough: Contentment in Consumer Season
Why having less stuff might be the secret to feeling better
Dec 16, 2025
It’s that time of year again. The commercials are telling you to buy, buy, buy. Your email inbox is full of “limited time offers.” Everyone’s decorating, shopping, spending. And somewhere in the middle of it all, you might be asking yourself: Do I really need more stuff?
If you’ve been around for a few decades, you’ve probably noticed something. That new thing you bought last year? It’s sitting in a closet now. The excitement wore off pretty fast. Maybe you’re even thinking about downsizing, looking around at all the things you’ve collected over the years, wondering why you have so much.
You’re not alone in feeling this way. And the research actually backs up what you might already suspect: more stuff doesn’t make us happier.
Why More Stuff Doesn’t Work (The Science)
Scientists have a name for what happens when we buy something new: “hedonic adaptation.” Basically, it means we get excited for a little while, then go right back to feeling however we felt before. That new sweater, that gadget, that decoration, they give you a little boost, then fade into the background of your life.
According to research published in 2025, people who consciously chose to live more simply reported being significantly happier than people who kept buying more things. Studies from New Zealand consumers found that simpler lives led to greater happiness and life satisfaction (source: Forbes)
The distinction between numbness and peace is sharp. I've done this thing where I'd fill every commute and meal with a podcast or video, convincing myself it was efficient use of time, but eventually it jsut became noise layering over actual thought. The unprocessed emotion idea lands for me too—when there's no downtime, things pile up without you noticing. I tried a similar experiment last month (no phone during breakfast) and honestly the first few days felt like withdrawl. Now it's the only time I actually process anything.
You didn’t mention the Biltmore!