The Lie We Tell Ourselves About Rest

We tell ourselves a comforting lie about vacations. We call it rest. We whisper the word like a benediction while clicking “confirm booking” at two in the morning, eyes bloodshot, credit card sweating in our hand. Rest, we say. Recharge. Reset. As if a week somewhere else can rinse the grit out of a life that’s been grinding us down for years.

Here’s the truth: most vacations are exhausting.

They begin with a long walk through an airport that smells faintly of despair and cinnamon rolls. Shoes off, belt off, dignity off. By the time you land, you’re already tired in a way that sleep doesn’t fix. You’re alert, wired, braced for impact—maps loaded, plans made, contingencies stacked on contingencies. You’re not resting. You’re deploying.

And it’s expensive. Not just the headline price—the flight, the hotel with the artfully distressed furniture and the “curated experience.” I mean the hidden costs. The extra baggage fee you didn’t see coming. The taxi ride that somehow costs more than your first car payment. The museum that’s closed the one day you have free. The cash-only restaurant. The adapter you forgot. The “just one drink” that becomes four because you’re too tired to argue with yourself.

Then there’s the place itself. Sometimes you pick wrong. The photos lied. Or told a selective truth. The beach is there, technically, but it’s ringed with trash and jet skis and a thousand other people chasing the same postcard. The charming neighborhood turns out to be charming only from a distance—up close it’s loud, under construction, and smells like last night’s regrets. You walk the streets thinking, This is on me. I chose this.

Food, the great promise. The reason many of us go anywhere at all. And yet—sometimes it doesn’t work. Sometimes the local cuisine, sacred and beloved by millions, just doesn’t agree with you. Maybe it’s too heavy, too sweet, too fermented, too unfamiliar for a stomach raised on late-night pizza and bad coffee. You smile, you nod, you chew politely while your body files a formal complaint. You feel like a fraud for not loving it. Like you’re failing some unspoken test of cultural literacy.

Language doesn’t help. You point, gesture, apologize with your eyes. You order the wrong thing. You misunderstand directions and walk for an hour in the wrong direction, sun beating down, confidence evaporating. You realize how thin your competence really is when stripped of your native tongue. How childlike you feel asking for help. How lonely.

And then—if you’re honest—there’s the undercurrent. The look that lingers a second too long. The joke you don’t quite understand but feel in your gut. The subtle reminder that you are other. That you don’t belong here in the way you imagined when you booked the ticket. It’s not always overt. Often it’s just a tone, a shift, a door that closes a little faster than it should. Enough to remind you that travel doesn’t magically dissolve prejudice. It just rearranges it.

So why do we keep going?

Because even in the exhaustion, the expense, the discomfort, there are moments—unplanned, unsellable moments—that slip through the cracks. A quiet street at dawn. A stranger who helps you anyway. A meal that finally clicks, that makes sense of the place in one perfect bite. A fleeting clarity about who you are when you’re out of context.

Vacations don’t give us rest. That’s the lie. What they give us is friction. And friction, painful as it is, can be revealing. It shows us what we’re running from, what we’re hoping will change just by changing latitude and longitude.

Real rest, the kind we actually need, is harder and less glamorous. It doesn’t come with a boarding pass. It comes from making peace with stillness, with boredom, with the unfiltered version of our own lives.

Travel won’t save you. But it might tell you the truth—if you’re willing to listen, tired feet, lighter wallet, and all.