I am lying on a massage table somewhere far, far away. Two horses hover beside me. A woman speaks to me in tongues while performing reiki. I am subsequently bidden to release my ancestral trauma by setting fire to some crumpled paper in a bowl. I do so with gusto. I shall be transformed.
I carry this gleeful, hopeful sentiment within me on the plane home. I feel light and free; my heart is filled with hope. But the very next day I suffered a monumental insult from someone I considered a friend. Three months on, I’m just as skint and single as I ever was—and my gym body hasn’t arrived either. As I stare down the barrel of the Piccadilly line tunnel at Covent Garden for the 8,000th time, it appears my requested manifestations haven’t arrived on cue. Given the retreat carried a $25,000-odd price tag, I’d have expected the universe to put me in the skip-the-queue line for psychic fulfilment.
I’m not alone in hoping for something to change post-holiday. Many of us buy into the idea of a break away as a total reset, a chance to usher in a new iteration of ourselves. It’s a cliché that young people head off to “find themselves” on a gap year for a reason.
“When we’ve invested a lot of meaning into a holiday, we can start to expect that we’ll come back as a different version of ourselves,” says Dr. Jade Thomas of Luxe Psychology Practice. “But we’re returning to the same job, responsibilities, relationships, and potentially the same stressors. So there can be quite a stark contrast between how we felt in that environment and what we’re returning to.”
Well, quite. This isn’t even the first time I’ve tried to usher in a new transformative era for my life by attempting to escape it. Last year I spent three days in India being rubbed from head to toe in oil by two women in tandem. Naked. (In my defence, the retreat came recommended by Queen Camilla—and Sting.) But after swallowing my prescribed homoeopathic pills upon return, I was still getting ghosted by men on apps all the same. The Ayurveda must not have come across especially strongly over Hinge.
In her critique of modern tourism for The New Yorker, writer Agnes Callard argued that travel is frequently an exercise in self-deception. We convince ourselves that moving our bodies through physical space alters who we are when, in reality, most travelers simply perform uncharacteristic habits for seven days—buying local trinkets, eating unusual cuisine, and pretending to care about regional flora—before returning to their exact baseline. Her conclusion? Stop moving. Be happy at home.
Really, I don’t agree. As a journalist at Traveler, I’ve had great fortune to visit some of the most wondrous locations on Earth. I’ve galloped across the Kenyan plains on horseback, snorkeled in the Maldives, seen the cherry blossoms fall in South Korea. I’ve slept in a tent on the top of the Bighorn Mountains, and laid down under the world’s starriest skies. I cherish these experiences deeply. To visit these places has been one of the greatest privileges of my life.
But it’s true that, in recent years, travel has undergone an exhausting promotion. Somewhere along the line, a simple holiday stopped being enough. Modern tourism demands that journeys should now double as a spiritual reckoning or a personal renaissance. A crop of innovative retreats designed to solve all ills now exists, incorporating everything from kinesiology and psychedelics to juice cleanses, breathwork, and EMDR, all proffering one key promise: you shall return home anew.
This is inevitably seductive to those who feel a level of discontent. At least, it is for me. I’ve been through the mill with dating over the last two years, putting myself out there again and again only to have a string of experiences leave me feeling that, somehow, I’m not enough as I am. Could it be that the key to unlocking my highest, most worthy self is as simple as a change of scenery?
