Learning to Land

How nervous system regulation changed the way I go home, travel, and create

I’ve been putting this blog off for a while—not because I didn’t want to write it, but because I wasn’t sure how to say what I wanted to say.

Coming home for the holidays this year marked my third visit home in three years. I’ve returned once a year, with longer stretches of time between each visit. I had never come home for Christmas before, so this one felt a little more special. Truth be told, I’m not a huge Christmas person—but after not being home for two years, and celebrating virtually alone in my shipping container in Costa Rica last year, I was excited to indulge in all the festivities.

And boy, did I.

We made Christmas cookies, frolicked in the snow, cuddled by the fire, watched umpteen holiday movies, celebrated with all of my family, ate all the food, and drank all the wine. It really was a special visit. And while it may sound like it was special because it was the holiday, that’s not actually what made the difference.

This season reminded me how much nervous system regulation changes the experience of being with family, even when old patterns are still present.

This wasn’t a better trip home because the circumstances were easier.
It was better because I was different inside my body.

It didn’t scare me as much. I’m usually anxious when I go home because I subconsciously prepare to fit myself back into the role I used to play in my family. This time, I didn’t do that. I went in with a different mindset—one rooted in respecting my boundaries. And by boundaries, I mean the ones I set to keep my nervous system regulated.

My system just can’t handle certain stressors anymore—or at least not many of them, and especially not all at once. I learned to listen to my body and respond accordingly. Sometimes that meant leaving the house to take a walk with the dog when there was a lot of yelling or everyday family noise that feels extra loud to my sensitive ears these days. Sometimes it meant removing myself from an argument and saying I needed a moment alone in my room to regroup.

These things may sound easy on the surface, but I assure you, they were not.

I hail from Wisconsin, so there’s a lot of drinking woven into my family history. But I just can’t keep up anymore. I’m not saying one way is better than another—I’m certainly not judging anyone, and I still enjoy drinks on occasion—but I know my limits now. Sleep has become sacred to me, and I’m no longer willing to sacrifice it, much to my sister’s dismay on many occasions.

I bowed out early, even when everyone gave me a hard time. I respected my personal boundaries because I knew I had to.

I was judged. Looked at funny. Eyes were rolled.
I didn’t like how that felt—but protecting my sanity mattered more. And after a while, people seemed to adjust. I think.

This was a different way of inhabiting the same life I used to live—honoring myself inside of it instead of trying to fit into a box or override my nervous system to just “be fine” like I used to. It was a challenging experiment, but it kept my heart happy and my mind steady. I enjoyed the trip so much more. I felt more like me.

Slow walks, steady breath, and nervous system regulation—small rituals that help me stay regulated while traveling and returning home.

The Truth About Going Home Now

To be honest, I’m still not fully myself at home. And home doesn’t really feel like home anymore. It’s different because I’m different. That still hurts sometimes—not just for me. I know it hurts my family and friends too. We’re all navigating the change together, and as we know, change is hard.

But this time, I didn’t spiral or try to force belonging. I noticed anxiety building without becoming it. I stayed present within my limits. I left situations earlier when they didn’t serve me. I created space alone without guilt and without explanation. I trusted myself enough to do what felt right without worrying so much about how it affected others.

One of my last days home, I was invited to a friend’s cabin. I knew it would mean a lot of drinking and a very late night. I love these people, and I struggled with the decision—but I felt it in my gut: I would be happier staying home.

Part of me really wanted to go. And then I realized—that was the old part of me trying to make everyone else happy.

What I actually wanted was to be productive, to prepare for future travel, to tend to my business, and to nurture my own sense of self. The old me never would have missed that opportunity. But she would have gone for all the wrong reasons.

Now, when I say yes, it’s intentional. It’s on my terms.
And that feels better. That feels right. That feels aligned.

No more guilt.
No more wishy-washy inner debate.
Just confidence in my own self-trust.

And that makes me feel stronger and more at home in my body than I ever have before.

Working While I Was Home

Another experiment I implemented on this trip was working while I was home—and not just behind the scenes. I decided to really show up.

I filled workshops. I connected with new clients. I embraced the healer within me—something I had been shying away from for a long time. It was time to let it shine.

And once I stopped trying to prove anything—once I reached out from grounded energy and genuine belief—the right people started showing up. It was magical. I could feel the flow, the warmth, and the trust in my workshops, my private Reiki sessions, and even in my words.

I was coming alive.

It wasn’t about filling classes or making the most money. It was about reaching the right people—without pressure, without force. I realized I could create anywhere—even in places that no longer fit—as long as I stayed true to the process and released my attachment to what it all “should” look like.

It was mind-blowing.

The more I let go, the more aligned everything felt. And while it was hard work to put those workshops together, I focused on attracting rather than chasing. I truly believe that made all the difference.

This time, nervous system regulation allowed me to stay present, focused, and grounded—even while creating and holding space for others.

Why Thailand Was the First Stop (Again)

Thailand wasn’t random. And as much as I like to say Koh Bulon was accidental, I know deep down it wasn’t.

America is hard for me when America isn’t in crisis. Being there during a crisis is a whole other animal.

And I wasn’t just anywhere—I was in Minneapolis. A city I call home. I grew up in Milwaukee, spent seven wonderful years in Chicago, and another eight in Minneapolis before I began traveling full-time. I’m a Midwesterner at heart, and I hold all three cities as home in different ways.

Seeing Minneapolis on the brink of civil unrest as I was leaving wasn’t easy. I felt like I was abandoning an inner call to protect my homeland. Like I was leaving my family unprotected. Like I was failing somehow.

But I didn’t go to Thailand to escape.
I went to Thailand to land.

I’ve been to Thailand five times now. There’s a familiarity without attachment—a place where my body already knows how to relax. I wasn’t seeking stimulation or novelty. I wanted simplicity after intensity. Regulation before expansion.

When I asked myself what I needed—sunshine, warmth, quiet, nature, water, space—Thailand kept rising to the surface.

I originally planned on Koh Lipe, but everything was booked. Enter ChatGPT, who suggested Koh Bulon. I had never heard of it.

There’s a reason for that.

Koh Bulon is a tiny, remote island you pass before getting off for Koh Lipe. Only a handful of us disembarked. As we approached the beach, I heard audible gasps—perfect white sand, crystal-clear turquoise water, and no one in sight.

I stepped off the boat, looked around, and pinched myself.
How did I find this place?

There are six or seven small restaurants, no ATMs, no 7-Elevens, no discos, no yoga shalas—just peace. Silent mornings. Yoga on my balcony. Meditation on the beach. Journaling and Thai basil rice with chicken and a fried egg at my favorite café. Snorkeling and swimming in the afternoons. Hammocks, books, stars, sleep.

It was everything I wanted—and everything I didn’t realize I needed.

Thailand was never about doing more. It was about nervous system regulation and travel—choosing an environment that supported rest, integration, and emotional safety before moving forward.

Simplicity after intensity.
We don’t honor that instinct enough.

On my last night, I sat with a curry rice meal served in a fresh coconut, filled with beef, shrimp, squid, and fish. I had a glass of wine. I stared at the moonlight dancing on the water.

And suddenly, I started crying.

Not sadness. Not grief.
Instead – Release. And recognition.

My nervous system finally had space to say, We’re okay. Thank you.

Koh Bulon wasn’t an accident.
It was a gift.

Setting the Stage for India

Koh Bulon also set the stage for India.

I always intended to return to Rishikesh to complete my 300-hour Yoga Teacher Training, where I completed my 200-hour two years ago. Something magical happened to me there—and I felt ready to deepen.

I chose regulation before expansion. Stillness before depth.

India is intense. I knew that. I couldn’t come directly from America—it would have been too much. Even so, arriving here last night was jarring.

The noise. The chaos. The cold. The hard mattress. One blanket. Fluorescent lighting. I slept in layers, including my puffy jacket, hood up—almost like Everest, but not quite.

Practicing nervous system regulation while traveling here became an act of self-trust, presence, and deep inner listening.

Life is harder here. But if I remember correctly, the reward is greater too.

Thailand reminded me that beauty often comes with sacrifice. And that the effort is worth it in the end.

Tying It All Together

This blog isn’t really about the holidays, America, Thailand, India, or even me.

It’s about choosing environments that support your nervous system.
It’s about letting regulation—not force—be your strategy.

One day in Thailand, I forced a snorkel despite rough waves. I was rocked violently—like a washing machine on spin cycle.

The next day, I waited. I listened. I let the conditions align.

The sea turned glassy. The timing was right. And the experience was effortless—calm, meditative, and beautiful.

When we force and chase, things are hard.
When we listen and align, they unfold.

I’m learning to trust myself through nervous system regulation—and it’s changing everything.

This season was never about finding home.
It was about learning how to feel safe wherever I land—and making that a non-negotiable.