How much I gave up for a slow life in the Scottish Highlands
An honest take on the cost of transformation and coming home to yourself.
A window and a question
There’s a window in our new home that frames the hills just so, where the light drips in at sunrise and the birds drift by like passing thoughts. It’s in front of this window that I find myself, again, asking a question I can’t quite shake:
How much of yourself are you willing to give?
This question isn’t born from strategy or ambition, but from a quiet ache. The kind that only makes itself known once the dust has settled. And now that it has, I see it clearly. The move is done. The boxes unpacked. The landscape waiting. I’m here. But in being here, I’ve left parts of myself behind. And I suppose I’m wondering… was it worth it?
The cost of a dream
Our move to the Cairngorms has been months in the making, a dream that whispered to us across seasons, a hope for something slower and more grounded. The kind of life where the rhythms of the land could shape our own. But even the most beautiful dreams come at a cost.
Every decision, every goodbye, every logistical hurdle, they all took something. It wasn’t dramatic or sudden. More like water shaping stone. Small erosions. Moments of doubt. Quiet stretches of exhaustion I tried to ignore. I gave a lot of myself to get here. Emotionally, physically, mentally.
And now, the silence of this place feels almost too loud. For the first time in ages, there’s nothing demanding my attention. No deadline. No rental van. Just stillness. And in that stillness, the weight of everything I gave starts to settle.
A flicker of return
But then, this morning, something shifted.
I sat down at my desk with a cup of coffee, intending only to write a few words. Ten days had passed since I last put pen to paper. That pause, though short, felt like an eternity. I’d begun to drift, forgetting the tether that writing offers me.
But as I began to write, a flicker returned. Not a blaze. Not yet. But something small and real. A friend had reminded me recently that writing isn’t just an outlet. It’s how I stay connected to who I am. Not the person I present to the world, or the one I thought I needed to become, but the quieter part of myself that often gets lost in the noise.
Outside, pheasants crept through frost-tipped grass. A hawk circled above the fields. And in that simple moment, breath fogging the glass, I felt a kind of arrival. Not just a physical relocation, but the beginnings of a return to myself.
I was no longer just someone who moved to the Highlands. I was beginning to feel at home here.
The tension of becoming
That’s the thing about change, isn’t it? We often prepare for the act itself, the move, the leap, the transformation. But we rarely prepare for what comes after. For the emptiness that follows completion. For the reorientation that must take place once the chaos subsides.
It’s one thing to give everything to reach a destination. It’s another to give yourself permission to rest once you arrive. To stop performing. To stop pushing. To simply be.
I’ve already had the pleasure of meeting some lovely locals, kind folk who welcomed us in with warm smiles, home baking, and rich coffee brewed with care. For the first time in a long while, I felt surrounded by people who shared my values. Who understand the pull towards a slower, more intentional life.
But when I was asked what I used to do, and more tenderly, what I intend to do next, I froze. My words stumbled. Shame crept in where confidence should have been. I felt exposed by the truth I couldn’t yet fully own. I want to slow down. I want to write, explore, connect. But saying that out loud felt like admitting weakness. Like stepping away from the version of myself I’ve carried for years, always achieving, always pushing, always proving.
Even here, in a place that invites honesty, it’s hard to leave my old self behind. My self-image, once rooted in extremes and constant motion, still lingers, even though it no longer reflects who I want to be.
This is the in-between. The becoming. And it’s tender work.
Leaning into the everyday
The practical shift is simple, though not always easy. I’m writing again, not with pressure, but with care. I’m letting my days unfold more slowly, led by feeling and light rather than obligation.
We walk the forest tracks behind our home, letting the rain cling to our jackets and the pine needles crunch underfoot. We pause when we feel the call to pause. We breathe deeper. We speak more gently. We’re learning how to live alongside this place, not separate from it.
And maybe most importantly, I’m reminding myself that rest is not laziness. That stopping is not failing. That quiet moments have value, even when they don’t lead to something to show for it.
A gentle invitation
I don’t know what the coming weeks will hold. I imagine there will be more moments of uncertainty, more quiet reckonings by this window. But I also know this. I’m here, fully. And I want to write from that place, not out of pressure, but out of care.
If you’re in a season of transition, or simply feeling worn by the weight of keeping everything going, I invite you to sit with this question too:
How much of yourself are you giving? And is there a part of you quietly asking to be held, not spent?
Let’s hold space for that part, gently, together.
With warmth from the Highlands,
Dan
This is simply beautiful! Probably the best thing I've read this year to be honest. It's so...pure and beautiful. Thanks for sharing.
This is a really beautifully written piece, and I admire you for taking the step into this kind of unknown. Like many others here, I have often dreamed of this kind of life too - but the concerns over "what comes next" or "what if . . ." always prevent me.
So you should be immensely proud of yourself already for embracing all of that nonetheless. And I wish you all the luck in the world for whatever is next in store for you and your partner.