🌲 Why I Escape to a Cabin With No Wifi (And Maybe You Should Too)

Why I Escape to a Cabin With No Wifi (And Maybe You Should Too)

So… why do I disappear into the wilds of the canadian North with no Wi-Fi, questionable plumbing, and a fridge that sounds like it’s crying at night?

Because it’s the only place I actually relax.

Yes, I know, you can technically relax anywhere. A spa, a beach, your own backyard hammock with a pink drink and a book about Scandinavian murders. But here’s the catch: I don’t.

When I have ten minutes of peace in my regular life, my brain goes, “Oooh, time to spiral!” Suddenly I’m obsessing over Chapter 4 and why it still reads like it was written by a caffeinated octopus. Or I remember that the audio edits on my last audiobook were a smidge less than perfect, and maybe I should recheck that pause at the 47-minute mark. And by the way, did I ever respond to that email about the email about the podcast interview?

I don’t relax. I rev.

Blame it on my upbringing. I grew up in a German household, and let me tell you, asking “Do you not have anything to do?” was not an innocent question. It was the productivity guillotine. That sentence could turn a lazy afternoon into window-washing, sock-organizing chaos in under two seconds.

So now, as a grown woman, I carry that deeply embedded work ethic like a badge of honor… and also like a thirty-pound kettlebell tied to my brain. Even when I’m technically “off,” I’m brainstorming new book titles or writing mentally while pretending to fold laundry.

But not at the cabin.

At the cabin, it’s just me, the loons, the lake, and a shocking number of mismatched coffee mugs. There’s no cell reception. No emails. No ability to Google "how many dead bodies is too many in a cozy mystery?" without being flagged by Homeland Security.

I read actual books. On paper. With pages that flutter and occasionally get smudged by marshmallow fingers because s’mores are mandatory. I stare at the water. I make friends with squirrels. (Okay, one of them may have stolen my granola bar, but I admire her hustle.) I let myself dream again.

And dreaming is where the magic happens.

Because when you give your brain space—not to hustle, not to fix, not to optimize—just space? That’s when ideas bubble up. Characters start talking. Plot twists arrive like uninvited party guests, and suddenly I’m scribbling on the back of an old grocery receipt because of course I forgot my notebook.

It’s not just about rest. It’s about remembering what rest feels like. It’s about proving to myself that the world will keep turning even if I don’t answer that email within 32 seconds.

Do you have a place like that? A place that helps you switch gears and remember how to be a human and not a productivity algorithm wearing sweatpants?

If not, I highly recommend it. Even if it means battling mosquitoes the size of chihuahuas and learning the fine art of flushing with a bucket.

Up north, I let go. I sit. I read. I watch loons. I don’t fix Chapter 4. I just… breathe.

And that, my friend, is worth every squirrel-stolen granola bar.

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