Sometimes I hit a point where I can’t look at a screen anymore. Not in a dramatic, burnout sort of way—just a slow, creeping resistance to checking messages, clicking tabs, answering anything. I’ll open my laptop and then close it five minutes later because I don’t want to read another thing. I’ll hold my phone like it’s made of sandpaper. I’ll scroll through an app, feel nothing, and shut it off mid-sentence.
That’s when I know it’s time to step out of the loop for a bit. No dramatic deletion of social media. No disappearing act. Just a break. A weekend without checking things. A day in the woods. A morning on the porch doing absolutely nothing “productive.” I call it my quiet reset.
And the packing for that kind of day is different.
No work gear. No chargers. No backup battery bricks. Just a book I’ve already started, a hoodie that smells like home, a sandwich wrapped in wax paper, and a bottle of water that I refilled from the sink. Simple, unceremonious. The kind of stuff that doesn’t interrupt.
I like to bring things that don’t do too much. Not in the way that forces me to be present, but in the way that just is present. Like a notebook with no prompts. A pencil I’ve sharpened down to the stub. A piece of string I use to mark my place in the book.
When I pack light like that, I start to feel human again. Not “optimized,” not “on brand.” Just steady. I don’t bring clothes to impress anyone, I bring the ones I’ll wear the whole time without adjusting. I don’t bring makeup. I don’t bring accessories.
I bring a face cloth, my solid lotion bar, and a little tin with basics—things that make me feel clean but don’t ask me to perform anything.
Inside that tin, there’s usually a slice of a natural oatmeal soap bar that’s been with me through a dozen trips. It’s not scented like a tropical drink or shaped like a flower. It’s just creamy and soft and doesn’t dry my skin out. I used to skip soap when I camped because it always felt like an afterthought—too harsh, too drying, too bulky. But this one? I cut off a piece, slide it into the tin, and forget about it until I need it. And when I do, it’s always gentle. A little grounding. Familiar.
I also pack my lovely reusable razor, which I only call “lovely” because it’s the only one I’ve ever liked enough to keep around. It doesn’t rattle. It doesn’t rust. It doesn’t have five overcomplicated blades that get clogged with two swipes. It just works. Smoothly. I don’t have to buy refill cartridges every other month, and I’m never stuck with that weird plastic feeling like I’m using a disposable toy on my skin. It feels like a tool, not a gimmick.
I used to think all this stuff was extra—luxury for Instagram hikers or Pinterest campers. Now I think it’s just thoughtful. Not bringing too much. Not bringing too little. Just the things that make me feel like myself in a different place.
There’s also the food. I bring the kind that doesn’t need heating, mixing, or measuring. Chopped fruit. A sandwich with something salty in it. A thermos of tea that will still be warm when I open it an hour later. I’ve learned the hard way not to bring anything I think I’ll want if I “feel like making it.” I never feel like it. I want what’s ready.
I don’t always go far. Sometimes I just walk until I find a bench in the sun. Other times I drive somewhere green and sit in the car for twenty minutes before deciding to walk. The point isn’t the activity. It’s the not-doing.
I turn off notifications, but I don’t always turn off the phone. I just pretend it’s a dumb phone from 2003. No apps, no replies, no searches. If someone calls, they’ll leave a message.
I read more slowly in these moments. I reread pages. I flip back. I get distracted by a leaf or a squirrel and don’t mind losing my place. I stare into space a lot. Sometimes I lie down and do absolutely nothing with alarming joy.
And when I get back home, I don’t unpack right away. That bag sits in the corner with its simple contents—a few wrinkled clothes, the soap tin, the empty thermos. It feels good to let it sit there a little. Like some of that slowness lingers. Like I’m not quite ready to get back into the fast-scrolling part of things.
The truth is, these mini-resets don’t solve anything big. They don’t fix the noise or erase the deadlines. But they make it easier to come back to all of it. More willing. Less bitter.
And that’s enough. That’s the point.
I don’t need an escape. I just need a day without pings and tabs and pressure. A morning with warm tea and silence. A sandwich in the sun. A bag that’s light, and full of only what matters.
