A Reset I Didn’t Know I Needed

I got home last night from a long weekend with my mom at the JW Marriott, Marco Island. For months I’d been muttering, “I need a reset, I need vitamin D, I feel deficient.” Two months ago I texted my travel-agent sister: “Book me the cheapest motel on South Beach, I just need sun.” Mom overheard, called me, and upgraded the plan: mother-daughter trip, oceanfront daybeds, virgin piña coladas handed to me without a single thought about the bill.

I’m not a princess—at least my ego insists I’m not—so I didn’t expect to be waited on. But by day two I stopped flinching every time a server appeared. I booked a massage without checking my budget. I read an actual paperback—the perfect beach read—without guilt that I wasn’t sequencing tomorrow’s yoga class. I knew I needed a break; I didn’t know how badly my nervous system needed one.

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Just Being, Not Doing

Hours passed without my phone. Seashells collected themselves on the corner of the daybed. I caught myself being—not creating, not fixing, not planning. No headphones, no podcast, no second screen. I simply looked around.

Looking, it turns out, is a lost art. For thousands of years humans survived by scanning the horizon. Now we scroll it. My nervous system, usually on high-alert, kept trying to drag me back: a past trauma popped up, a future anxiety waved. Each time I practiced the gentle re-soothe: I am here, waves still lap, I am safe.

Peace, I remembered, doesn’t live in the past, the future, or the to-do list. Peace lives in the present moment. And the present moment was a spa robe, a silent pool, and the low rumble of other equally stunned, equally relaxed people.

The Technique Is Distance

I didn’t use a single “tool.” No 4-6 breath, no grounding my feet into the earth, no bilateral tapping. The only technique was removal—physical distance from the stressors. That’s the cheat code Florida gave me: geography.

The hard truth: I can’t pack the ocean in my carry-on. Back home the emails, the classes, the group chats, the side hustles—they’re already queued. I know the protocols—box breathing, cold plunge, yoga nidra—but my body still buzzes. As teachers we’re supposed to have answers. I’ve got playlists, Reiki, sound bowls, cues that work for you. Tonight I’m the student again, googling “how to regulate my own nervous system in an overly-priced apartment with thin walls.”

Forward-Looking Statement

Here’s what I’m bringing back: proof that calm is possible. A souvenir shell that says, “You tasted it once; you can cook it again, smaller stove, same ingredients.” I don’t have the recipe yet, but I’m experimenting: ten minutes of just looking out the window before I open my laptop, no phone on the bathroom counter while I brush my teeth, one paragraph of this journal every night to keep the practice honest.

If you’re reading this between meetings, on the train, hiding in the office bathroom—consider this your soft nudge. Book the day off, borrow the beach, or simply stare out the window until your pulse drops. The reset doesn’t have to be fancy; it just has to be away. And when you find it, pack the feeling, not only the photo. We’ll figure out the rest from here.

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