I love finding peace in the world. Perhaps that is one of the reasons I travel.
I cannot control the news or the conflicts of the world. I cannot control what other people carry into a room. But I can choose what I allow into my mind. And I can choose the people, places, conversations, and experiences I allow close to me.
I may not always have a choice about what reaches me, but I can become more aware of how much attention I give it, how long I stay with it, and how it affects the way I experience my own life.
Anything that continually brings toxicity, chaos, or heaviness into my life has less and less room in it.
I have learned to protect the peace within me because it is sacred to me, not by hiding from the world, but by intentionally choosing how I want to live in it.
That does not mean I want a life without difficult moments, or that there is no room for someone else’s pain. I want to remain open to people, to care, and to listen. I am learning that I can do those things while also recognizing when something continually leaves me unsettled or takes more from me than I can give. Peace matters in those choices, too.
And whenever I find beauty, nature, wisdom, kindness, or stillness in the world, I move toward it, like a butterfly toward a flower. Like a prayer to the divine.
Perhaps that is what travel has become for me. A way of becoming more conscious of the life I want to live.
In the middle of the night, I woke to the sound of fish jumping in the water beside the boat. I stepped outside and stayed there as night slowly became morning.
Before me was one of my favorite places on earth: Hạ Long Bay, Vietnam.
As the sun continued to rise, magnificent mountains rose from the water, towering around me in every direction. Giant ancient limestone rocks appeared in different colors: black, white, gray, red, and yellow. Some stood alone. Others gathered together as though they had been placed there with intention. They felt powerful, surrounding the boat like protectors.
As I stood there, I kept looking from one mountain to another, noticing their colors, their shapes, and the vibrant green growing over the rock. There was so much to take in, yet I did not feel hurried. I could stay with what was before me and let the morning unfold.
Jellyfish drifted quietly through the water below. Everything around me seemed to say:
Be here. Just be.
So I did.
Later, I practiced Tai Chi on the deck. The warm breeze touched my skin. I took a deep breath, and for a moment, pure joy and peace flowed through my body; I felt so alive.
What touched me was how little that moment required. I was breathing, moving, feeling the breeze, and looking out over the water. I was happy just to be there. I wish I could share that feeling with you: the quiet pleasure of being somewhere so beautiful and realizing that you are there, that this moment is part of your life, and that you can allow yourself to enjoy it fully.
This is how I picture paradise.
But standing there, surrounded by so much beauty, I understood that beauty alone is not enough for me.
I have been in beautiful places while carrying unrest inside me. I have learned that it does not matter where I am; if I am not at peace within myself, I cannot be truly happy.
I can change my surroundings and still carry the same worries into the next place. Travel gives me new things to see, but it also gives me opportunities to notice myself: what occupies my thoughts, what I keep returning to in my mind, and whether I am allowing myself to experience the life happening around me.
For me, happiness and inner peace have become inseparable.
Hạ Long reminded me that inner peace and the world around us are not completely separate. A mountain cannot do all the work of bringing me peace. The sea cannot always quiet a troubled mind. But when I am open, nature helps me return to myself.
And when that openness is difficult, I need to pause, notice the breeze on my skin, breathe, and give myself a moment without expecting it to solve everything.
Perhaps that is why these limestone mountains felt like protectors. They were not protecting me from life. They were reminding me that I could choose what part of the world I carried within me.
The troubles of the world had not disappeared that morning. Yet there was also this water, this light, this quiet joy. These were very real, and I could give them my attention. I could let them become part of what I carried into the rest of my day.
I cannot take Hạ Long Bay with me, but I can remember that morning, when all my senses were open and my attention was on what was in front of me. Perhaps that is something I can practice elsewhere, even on an ordinary day. To pause, to choose what brings me ease, and to allow myself to receive it.
I used to think of home as a place. A city, a house, an address where I keep my belongings.
That morning, standing on the deck, I was home. There was nowhere else I wanted to be. I was at peace with myself and glad to be living this moment.
Home is where my heart, body, and soul align.
