A Long Weekend in the Mountains With No Agenda

I am, by nature, a planner. Itineraries. Reservations. The right restaurant at the right time. I am very good at optimizing an experience into something that looks perfect and feels slightly exhausting.

This trip I didn't do any of that. I booked a cabin, packed a bag, and told myself the only rule was no schedule.

Day one I slept until nine. I can't remember the last time I slept until nine. I made eggs slowly. I read for three hours without checking my phone. I went for a walk with no destination and came back when I felt like it.

By day two something had shifted. The low-grade hum of productivity guilt — the thing I didn't even know was always there — had gone quiet.

I came home rested in a way that a spa day doesn't touch. The mountains didn't do it. The absence of agenda did. I'm still thinking about what that means.