The Rituals That Keep Me Grounded When I Travel

How I Stay Regulated, Present, and Nourished in Motion

Cotopaxi National Park, Ecuador in June, 2025. Same day as the image of me below hiking the Cotopaxi volcano.

It happened in Ecuador. One moment, Larry and I were hiking the Cotopaxi volcano in hail and wind so fierce it could've carried prayers straight into the sky. Fifteen thousand feet above sea level, thin breath, thick wonder, nowhere to hide and pee.

Hiking the Cotopaxi volcano in hail at over 15,000 ft altitude. Brutal and exhilarating

One day later, we were ziplining through the air in Baños, sun gently warming our souls, not too hot, not too cold, like Goldilocks herself blessed the weather.

Ziplining, walking the suspension bridge, swinging in the clouds, and watching others walking something a little bit more crazy in Baños, Ecuador

What I felt most in both places wasn't the change in climate, language, or terrain. It was the quiet whisper inside me asking:

Can I still feel like me here?

My rituals were stretched: no altar, no kitchen, no familiar mug. Just a body trying to stay steady on a planet that spins fast and offers no pause button. And yet, something inside me did stay steady. Something that didn’t need to be packed, scheduled, or journaled: my rhythm.

In a few weeks, I’ll be in Southern Italy. Hikes, walks, snorkeling… pizza…
New textures. New questions.

But I won’t plan it all out. I’ll bring rhythm, not rules.

And I want to share how.

Rhythm is not routine

Let’s clear something up. Rhythm isn’t your 6 AM alarm or your perfect smoothie recipe. Those are routines. Helpful, yes. Sacred even. But rhythm is older, deeper, quieter.

Rhythm is your breath when you wake up in a strange bed and need to orient yourself. It’s the pulse under your skin reminding you you’re alive, even when you feel disoriented.

I tried duplicating my exact morning routine on trips. Same tea. Same meditation. Same journal prompts. It didn’t feel right. I felt like a performer trying to recreate a show outside its theater.

I realized:

Rhythm isn’t about copying home. It’s about remembering Self.

My anchors in new places

When I step into new spaces — from the airport to the taxi, the hotel lobby to our room — I meet it all with breath. A slow inhale. A slower exhale. It’s not performative, rather it’s a nervous system check-in. Gratitude drops in naturally.

We stock our room with water. Bottles and bottles. I always travel with my heat-retaining bottle. I find a way to get hot water in it, morning and night. That warmth soothes more than my throat and keeps travel indigestion away. It tells my body:

We are safe.

I unpack my things, even if it’s two nights. It signals to my mind: we belong here right now.

Mornings vary. Sometimes it’s a breath practice in bed (I start with deep breathwork on hiking days). Sometimes a full meditation. Always some kind of gratitude. These days, I ask:

What is freedom?

The answers can change daily, and they always surprise, it’s never the usual.

At meals, I sit. I chew. I slow down. I thank the food, even if it’s new, spicy, and unfamiliar. I don’t stick to my usual food “rules.” I taste the culture. I honor the land by enjoying its flavors.

And yes, my playlist of mantras comes with me, always downloaded. Because sometimes, the most grounding thing is hearing a sound that remembers you back into yourself.

These aren’t chores. They’re my sacred thread. They make new places feel like home. They keep me in my body, not just my itinerary.

When it frays

I don’t always get it right.

Sometimes I’m too tired to get my hot water. Sometimes the day gets away from me. Travel days especially — airports, delayed meals, overstimulation — they pull me off center.

I’ve learned to notice it. I don’t criticize, and instead, I observe. I name the pattern.

Then I respond (I don’t wait until I’m far gone; you know that point of “no return”):

• I double the length of my exhale.

• I put in my earbuds and listen to mantra.

• If I can, I find warmth: a hot tea, a hot matcha, even just warm water. I sit and sip. I don’t sip on the run.

• I treat myself like I’d treat a tired child. Gently without scolding.

This is how I return. Not through perfection, but through softness.

Station identification break with some more pics at Cotopaxi

What travel teaches me about rhythm

When routine is removed, rhythm is revealed.

You learn what really supports you, what actually matters, and what you were holding onto out of habit instead of need.

You realize: Rhythm doesn’t live in your matcha. It lives in your presence.

It sharpens your inner ear. Teaches you to listen. Shows you how to carry home inside you rather than search for it on the outside.

The rhythm that remembers me

I think back to Ecuador.

I was quite breathless on Cotopaxi, but not ungrounded. I was zipping through clouds in Baños, but not unmoored. Because I had my rhythm.

Next month in Italy, the scenery will shift again. But I know:

I don’t need perfect conditions to stay well. I just need to listen.

To the breath, the water, the mantra, the moment.

That’s how rhythm travels.

You can travel with it too.

Love, Savitree
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