How I Travel With Anxiety and Still Love It
My anxiety didn’t disappear the day I bought a one-way ticket. It came with me—through airports, hostel check-ins, and long stretches of unfamiliar silence. And still… I love this life. Not despite the anxiety, but alongside it. I’ve learned to travel slowly, gently, and with softness at every step. This isn’t a story of conquering fear. It’s a story of coexisting with it—and choosing freedom anyway.
I Make Peace With the Fact That Anxiety Might Show Up
I no longer expect myself to “get over it.” I expect it to show up in moments of transition—flights, new beds, crowded markets. Instead of resisting it, I greet it: “Hi. You’re here again. We’re okay.”
I remember a night in Athens when I couldn’t sleep. My mind spun with noise: what if I miss my flight tomorrow? What if I get lost? What if I can’t handle it? The harder I fought the thoughts, the louder they grew. Finally, I sat up, placed my hand on my chest, and whispered: “Hi anxiety. You’re here. That’s fine. We’re safe.” It didn’t make the feelings disappear instantly, but it softened the edge. My breath deepened. My body relaxed. I fell asleep not because I forced the anxiety away, but because I allowed it to exist without fear.
Peace doesn’t come from eliminating anxiety. It comes from making room for it without letting it run the show. Every time I greet it with compassion instead of panic, it loses its power.
Anxiety is part of me—but it doesn’t define me. And that simple shift has changed everything.
I Build Soft Routines—Even in New Places
Mornings start slow. I drink the same tea. I journal before WiFi. I find one cozy café to return to. These small rituals create emotional anchors, helping my nervous system feel safe in the unknown.
In Lisbon, I discovered a café a block away from my guesthouse. The first morning, I went because it was convenient. The second morning, I went because the barista remembered my order. By the end of the week, it had become my sanctuary. I’d sit by the same window, sip tea, and open my journal before connecting to WiFi. That ritual steadied me more than any itinerary ever could.
Routines don’t have to be elaborate. They can be as simple as stretching in the same way each morning or brewing your favorite tea from home. These soft rituals whisper to your body: “You belong. You’re safe here.”
Travel is full of change. Routines give you continuity. And when you carry them gently, you feel at home anywhere you land.
I Choose Destinations That Feel Emotionally Gentle
I skip chaotic hubs and high-pressure itineraries. I gravitate toward calm cities, nature, slower cultures. I’ve learned that my joy grows when I travel with my sensitivity—not against it.
In Ljubljana, Slovenia, I felt this truth deeply. The city moved at a slower rhythm—quiet river walks, bicycle bells echoing, locals sipping coffee without rush. I spent mornings in small bookshops, afternoons by the water, evenings journaling under warm streetlights. My nervous system felt like it could finally exhale.
I used to think I needed to prove something by braving only big, hectic destinations. But when I honored my sensitivity, everything shifted. Traveling gently doesn’t mean you’re weak. It means you’re wise enough to choose places that hold you, instead of overwhelm you.
The right destination for you isn’t the one everyone raves about. It’s the one that makes your body soften when you arrive. And that choice is an act of self-trust.
I Say No Without Guilt
No to group tours. No to noisy dorms. No to overpacked schedules. I’ve learned that saying no is an act of self-trust—and saying yes to peace is its own kind of adventure.
In Mexico City, I stayed in a lively hostel where every night ended with invitations to bars and late dinners. At first, I said yes to everything out of politeness, but soon I was exhausted, edgy, and behind on work. One night, I finally said no. I cooked a quiet meal in the shared kitchen, climbed into bed early, and let myself rest. The next morning, I woke up refreshed and smiling—proof that no was the best decision I could’ve made.
Saying no doesn’t mean you’re antisocial. It means you’re attuned to your needs. It creates space for peace, for energy, for the experiences you truly want to say yes to.
Every no rooted in self-trust is also a yes—to your health, your joy, your freedom. And that’s what real adventure is built on.
I Let the Beauty Break Through the Fear
Even on the hard days, there are sunsets. Small kindnesses. New smells. Laughter in strange places. I’ve learned to let those moments in—not as proof that everything’s okay, but that I can be okay in the middle of it.
In Hanoi, I once had a panic spiral while navigating a chaotic street market. The sounds and crowds were too much. I stepped aside, pressing against a wall, trying to steady myself. Just then, a little girl offered me a slice of mango with a shy smile. I laughed through tears, took the fruit, and bit into its sweetness. The fear didn’t vanish, but the beauty slipped in beside it. That moment became a reminder: even when anxiety feels overwhelming, there is still space for joy.
Beauty doesn’t erase fear—but it coexists with it. And when you let it in, it softens the edges.
Travel will always bring discomfort. But if you let the beauty break through, you remember that you can carry both fear and joy—and still keep moving.
I Prepare Softly, So My Future Self Feels Held
Preparation doesn’t have to mean rigid schedules—it can mean giving yourself small comforts for the moments when anxiety shows up. I’ve learned that the way I prepare shapes the way I feel when things get messy.
Before flying to Tokyo, I packed a “calm kit” in my carry-on: lavender oil, a playlist of grounding songs, and a journal. On the flight, turbulence hit hard, and my chest tightened. Instead of spiraling, I pulled out the oil, pressed it to my wrists, put on my headphones, and wrote for ten minutes. The anxiety didn’t disappear—but it softened. I had given my future self tools to feel safe.
This kind of preparation is gentle, not controlling. It’s saving directions offline before you need them. Carrying snacks for long layovers. Keeping a grounding ritual close at hand. You’re not planning every detail—you’re creating touchpoints of care.
When you prepare softly, you don’t just pack items. You pack reassurance. And in moments of uncertainty, that reassurance makes all the difference.
I Celebrate Myself for Showing Up Anyway
Anxiety doesn’t cancel out courage. In fact, some of the bravest moments are the ones where fear traveled with me—and I went anyway. I’ve learned to celebrate myself not for being fearless, but for moving forward while afraid.
In Rome, I nearly skipped a day trip because my chest was tight with worry. The train station felt overwhelming, the thought of navigating a new place exhausting. But I whispered to myself: just try. I bought the ticket, boarded the train, and by afternoon I was wandering through sunlit streets, eating gelato under a fountain. The anxiety had been there—but so had the beauty. And I would have missed it if I had let fear decide.
Every time I choose to show up, even shakily, I build evidence of my strength. Anxiety might still sit in the backseat, but I’m the one driving.
Celebration is powerful. It turns every step into victory, every attempt into proof. You don’t have to wait to be free of anxiety to be proud of yourself. You just have to keep showing up.
Closing Thought
Traveling with anxiety doesn’t make you less adventurous—it makes you deeply aware. Of your needs. Your bravery. Your presence. You don’t have to be fearless to live fully. You just have to be gentle with yourself and go anyway.
