Happiness Has a Boarding Pass: What a No-Travel Year Taught Me

Financial stress stole my joy. But science — and a sorely-needed solo trip — helped me find my spark again.

Yes, travel does factor into personal happiness. Just ask author S. Jennifer Paulson, who ditched it for a year — and learned a lot about herself and what makes her feel fulfilled.

A year ago, I gave up traveling.

It hasn’t been a good couple of years. Job changes. Surprise developments. Hefty bills that came out of nowhere. An unraveling of the beautiful life I thought I had built. Tragedies, both personal and across the nation and globe.

It took me a minute, but I recently realized something.

To help my family’s bottom line, I had given up the very things that brought me joy and happiness. And I quickly learned that doing so was obliterating my inner peace.

It’s not all in my head, either. There’s science to back up just what’s burbling around in my brain — experiences that bring us joy make us who we are. And when we sacrifice that part of ourselves, sure, we can handle it.

For a bit. Until the call begins its pull.

It’s then that things change. And it wasn’t for the better in my case.

Sound familiar? Because I’m not the only one trying to creatively finance my life. Hotel Online shared earlier this month that travel plans are down slightly from last fall and winter. Why? Rising costs across the economy are to blame for the 45% of Americans cutting back on hitting the road or the air this upcoming holiday season. Half of those surveyed cited inflation as a factor in their seasonal plans, saying they’re less likely to travel overnight.

But does it have to be this way? All or nothing? And at what cost?

When the going gets tough, the tough trim bills?

My parents were both teachers, my mom stepping away from the classroom when I was born to raise my sister and me while my dad worked. Understandably, finances were tight on one income. So, trimming fat was needed at times. The first thing to go? Our subscription to the Chicago Tribune. It sounds trivial, but those little costs add up.

Now, I’m the adult. And my road has been rocky. Especially in the past three years. Faced with my own challenges, I begrudgingly canceled my Audible membership, and a library card took its place. Quality skin care I’d come to depend on — items that had led to compliments about my appearance and made me feel good about myself — went, too. Cheap drug store knockoffs, come on in! I limited streaming services, figuring I would eventually finish “The Handmaid’s Tale.” I stopped getting my hair done at a salon and opted to color it — quite crappily — myself. I stopped making plans to travel with my best friend, who lives some 2,000 miles away, something we’ve done for the past 15 years.

Within months, I discovered something.

I just existed. And it was doing a number on me.

I grew up in a family that had its travel routine and stuck to it. We were Disney fanatics and trekked down to Orlando every one to two years. That’s what we did. I didn’t know any different. And it was pretty epic. The smell of the Florida air enticed me — and I wanted to breathe it 24/7. It stoked my desire to live where I loved.

In the first ten years after transplanting from Chicago to Brevard County, my travels consisted of cruises out of Port Canaveral and several flights to Chicago to maintain bonds with our Midwest families.

But then, I decided to start traveling with my best friend. We had talked about going to Vegas for years. For my 35th birthday, we made it happen. And I discovered an untapped resource of joy. Exploring new places and old favorites with girlfriends. There was no begging her to meet me for dinner. No pleas for her to abandon the sportsbook and spend time together exploring.

It was wonderful. And it made me realize that travel (aka, quality time) is my personal love language — to myself.

As my first marriage began to unravel and lead to divorce, I took my newfound freedom and ran with it. Sonoma. San Francisco. New York City. Vegas (again and again). And finally, London. And Paris! Even jaunts to South Florida or the Gulf Coast brought me pockets of happiness.

The trips weren’t just about the destination. There’s nothing like the excitement of building a trip itinerary and booking it. The months, weeks and days of anticipation that lead up to it. The excitement of getting up at 3 a.m. for a flight (yes, I’m weird), visions of my destination dancing in my head.

And there’s science to back it up:

• Pre-trip happiness is a thing. At least Springer says so. The act of looking forward often drives the biggest boost of joy.

• Vacation benefits are real, the Oxford Academic explains, but dwindle within weeks — so frequency is more beneficial than the size of the trip.

• Recovery works via detachment, relaxation, autonomy, mastery, meaning/connection, according to the European Psychologist.

• Nature time measurably restores attention and lifts mood, the European Centre for Environment & Human Health tells me. Even short park visits help.

• Scientific Reports claims awe experiences reduce depressive symptoms and increase well-being.

• Financial stress’s connection to mental health is bidirectional — tight budgets can lower well-being, which makes “no-travel years” feel especially heavy, says the Financial Health Network.

Yep. All of this was now missing from my life. And it was a big hole.

My daily routine started to get to me. I was irritable. Sad. Severely depressed. Stricken with panic attacks. I felt like I had no purpose — except for bringing home a paycheck. Each day, it was the same: Wake up, watch the news, start working, eat dinner (I was too depressed to cook, ironically), watch Netflix, sleep, repeat. I’d do the same on weekends, focusing on school, writing and marketing my novel.

My best friend and I had planned to celebrate my 50th birthday in Greece. It was set — but the trip’s cost was ruffling some feathers. Starting a new job and having some degenerative hip pain, my health problem got so severe, my mom begged me not to go. I suspect she’d envisioned I’d take a spill in a foreign country and be sent home in a full-body cast — or perhaps a body bag. So, as I turned the big 5–0, I watched Netflix in bed while eating ice cream. I turned in at the raging hour of 8:30 p.m. — perhaps an interlude to my hip replacement four months later.

I get it. This is not a tragedy by any means. But it has had a negative impact. At least for my overall well-being.

A ‘Come to Jesus’ moment

Recently, I’d had enough. I had given up all these things I loved — and financial strains remained the same. To hell with this, I thought. I need a break!

So, I headed to San Diego a few weeks ago. Alone. It was planned a trip with my best friend, but she wasn’t able to make it. So I did. (It was nonrefundable, after all.)

There is something to be said for spending time traveling alone. I rented a VW Beetle convertible and knocked off a portion of my Bucket List — driving up the Pacific Coast Highway. At least to Laguna Beach.

Used to the swamplands, beaches and flat terrain of Florida, staying in a Vrbo a few blocks from the Pacific Ocean teased me with views of the mountains to the east, the glinting ocean to the west as I traipsed down Loring Street, mesmerized by the stunning architecture, both modern and classic. The weather was a perfect 70 degrees. I trekked downtown, to Seaport Village, a farmer’s market in Little Italy, and super cute boutique stores. I ordered a pizza two nights in a row and crashed on the couch watching old favorite movies at 8:30 p.m. I searched for local kava bars to check out (it’s my scene since I stopped drinking in April 2020).

And I just relaxed. Took a breath. And checked out of regular life. If only for five days.

You sound so much better, my friends and family say. My bright light has returned. I have joy in my voice. I sound hopeful. I sound happy. I have my spark back.

The sea lions, surfers and casual observers soak in the Pacific Ocean at La Jolla Cove on Oct. 4, 2025.

And I want more.

I’m up against strained finances, minimal PTO and even smaller savings. But I know. This is what makes me me. This is why I’m on this earth. To live. To love. To enjoy. And maybe leave the world a little better than when I found it. I hope my writing is an integral part of that.

But to do that, I have to do me first. And slowly, I am building back my life — and savings — so I can do more than exist.

So I can excel. And rise like a proverbial phoenix from the ashes.

Watch me.

This article was originally posted on Medium. See it here.