I’d spent years climbing the corporate ladder until I finally made it to the executive level. The money was good. The perks were good. The work was even interesting most days. But the higher I went, the more the job seemed to revolve around restructures—reorgs, “efficiencies,” streamlining. Polite words for the same thing: people being treated like cogs. Replaceable parts in a machine.
And I couldn’t stomach it anymore. These weren’t line items. They were lives. Careers. Families. Real people. That’s when I knew: this isn’t me. I can’t want this anymore. So I quit.
What I needed next wasn’t another job or a better title. I needed a reset. So I booked three weeks in New Zealand. Flights in and out, nothing in between. No schedule. No plan. Just the audacity to say: my time is mine again.
The first few days felt strange. My brain kept firing the same thought: surely someone at work had questions. How was the business running without me? After years of being wired to urgency, silence felt unnatural. Like I was in withdrawal from being “essential.”
So I made myself a new ritual. Every morning, I’d check out of a hotel with no plan. Backpack on, nowhere booked. I’d find a coffee shop, spread out a map, and sketch the day like a choose-your-own-adventure. What’s nearby? What sounds interesting? Is there a spot to stay once I get there? Along the way, I’d follow trailhead signs or detour down side roads just because they said, “check this out.”
Sure, some stuff needed a reservation—glow worm caves, rappelling into caverns, kayaking next to penguins in fjords. But the highlight reel wasn’t what reset me. It was the everyday freedom of choice. The return of spontaneity. The thrill of not knowing the plan until I was living it.
And then nature took over. Wide-open valleys where mountains didn’t hurry to grow. Rivers that weren’t rushing anywhere but still carved their way forward. Air that carried the smell of rain-soaked earth, salt off the coast, wood smoke drifting from miles away. Out there, stress didn’t stand a chance. The static quieted. My body chemistry recalibrated.
One morning, I realized I hadn’t asked “what time is it?” in days. Because when time is yours, the better question is: what do I actually want to do with it?
That was the shift. Not escape. Ownership.
Corporate life had taught me time was money—billable, optimized, squeezed dry. New Zealand taught me that time is life. It expands when you own it. It shrinks when you sell it.
Traveling solo showed me the same thing about connection. You don’t need a meeting invite for it. Trail buddies, hostel dinners, random conversations with locals—it happened naturally, because I finally had the space to notice.
New Zealand didn’t just melt my stress. It rewired me. The urgency dissolved. The static lifted. And in its place came something quieter but stronger: presence. Choice. Awe.
I realized I wasn’t chasing a different career. I was chasing my original vibe—the authentic one I’d lost under the noise.
I’m not here to sell a vibe. I’m here to live one. That trip is where I found mine—and it’s why Balanced Vibe exists today.
#natureheals
Thrive on,
Brian
