Everything I Found Without Looking

When I told people I was heading to New Zealand, their first question was: “Where are you going first?” I smiled and said, “I don’t know yet.” All I had was a vague dream—buy a camper van and drive around. That was the plan. No itinerary, no timeline. Just movement.

Some were shocked I didn’t even have a return ticket. “You’re not planning anything?” they asked. But I wasn’t looking for a checklist of sights—I was chasing something quieter. Something more real. I wanted to wake up and decide where to go based on nothing more than a feeling.

Freedom Isn’t Always Easy

What I didn’t expect was how tiring freedom can feel. When there’s nothing anchoring your day, doubt can creep in. That voice that whispers, “You should be doing more.” I wrestled with it. I worried I was wasting my time, wasting the trip.

But then came the shift. I started embracing what was in front of me. The simple joys—morning light through the van window, coffee with no rush, stumbling on a quiet lake or a hidden track. Life began to unfold without effort.

Moments You Can’t Plan

I drove through towns I didn’t know existed. Pulled over when the sky looked too beautiful to ignore. Hiked trails I never researched. And met strangers who felt like old friends. One day, I chatted with a couple traveling by bike. We shared stories, no names exchanged. Just two souls passing each other like drifting stars.

And then—there was the night I saw the Southern Lights.

I was already tucked in for the night, my van quiet and the world outside still. It was supposed to be dark—pitch black like usual—but something felt off. A strange glow crept through the curtains, and with it came this quiet urge: Go outside. I hesitated, then followed that nudge.

I had always wanted to see them. I’d seen photos, heard stories—people said it depended on timing, weather, luck. But I hadn’t checked any forecast. I hadn’t expected anything. And yet, when I stepped outside, the sky was alive. Waves of green, pink and violet swirled above me, dancing across the stars like a dream. I stood in the silence, heart full. The moment felt like a gift—one the universe had gently placed in my hands without a word.

Another time, while hiking, I met a lady who offered me more than just directions—we walked the trail together, sharing stories about our lives like old friends reunited. A couple of days later, we crossed paths again. She invited me into her home, made me a warm meal, and gave me a place to sleep. It wasn’t just shelter—it was connection. For a few hours, I wasn’t a traveler. I felt like I belonged. Like I had found a small pocket of home in the middle of nowhere.

There was something else too—something I couldn’t quite explain. She seemed familiar. Like someone I already knew. As if our paths had crossed before in another time or life. That feeling lingered long after I left, soft and unexplainable, like a memory I hadn’t made yet.

Other days I did nothing. I parked the van near a beach and let the hours pass—watching waves, scribbling in my notebook, breathing deeper than I had in months. That’s when I realized: I wasn’t doing nothing. I was living.

When you stop trying to fill every moment, the best ones find you.

Looking back, I don’t remember the places I missed—I remember the freedom I found. The version of me that emerged not from plans, but from presence.

So no, I didn’t plan much. But I found everything I didn’t know I was searching for.