Time is passing faster than the hands of a clock can rotate around its face. Days blur into weeks, weeks into years, and somewhere along the way the simple act of living has been replaced by rushing. Rushing to work, rushing through meals, rushing through conversations, and rushing through life itself. I want to stop the clock. I want to step off this speeding carousel of obligations, deadlines, and expectations. I want to live in the moment.
And so I did.
I came to Costa Rica.
Not as a tourist chasing beaches or volcanoes, but as a soul seeking refuge from the relentless pace of modern existence. Costa Rica is a tiny country, tucked delicately between Nicaragua to the north and Panama to the south, resting quietly in the heart of Central America. It is small on a map, but immense in spirit. Here, life unfolds differently. Here, time is not a tyrant.
I came to live in a remote mountainous region of Costa Rica, far from crowded cities and multilane highways. The journey itself felt like a shedding of layers—the further I traveled from urban life, the lighter I felt. The mountains rose gently, wrapped in mist, their slopes blanketed by forests so dense they seemed ancient. Trees stood like guardians, giants with outstretched arms, sheltering entire mountainsides beneath their canopies. Streams flowed freely, carving paths through rock and earth, their waters cold and pure, widening as they traveled downhill toward rivers unseen.
In this place, the air is different. It smells clean, alive, almost sweet. Breathing deeply feels natural again. I realized how shallow my breath had become back home, how I had forgotten what it felt like to truly inhale.
Here, people live simply. Some live well into their nineties and beyond, not because of advanced technology or miracle medicines, but because of balance. They rise with the sun. They eat what they grow. They walk instead of rush. They talk face to face instead of through screens. There are no frantic schedules, no constant checking of cell phones, no endless emails demanding immediate responses.
This is a world largely untouched by fast cars, laptop computers, drive-through meals, and divided families. Instead, there is community—real community. Neighbors know one another. They share food, stories, and labor. They show up when someone needs help, without being asked.
I came to live off the land.
I built a house of wood, not as an architectural statement, but as an act of humility. Wood breathes. It ages gracefully. It reminds you that you are part of the natural world, not separate from it. Each board carried the scent of forest and rain. Each nail driven felt intentional, grounding me in the present moment.
I planted a garden, kneeling in the rich, dark soil. The earth here is generous. With patience and care, it gives back abundantly. Vegetables grow quickly, nourished by frequent rains and warm sun. Working in the garden became a meditation. There was no hurry. Seeds cannot be rushed. They teach you to wait, to trust, to observe.
I established a small vineyard, knowing full well it would take years to bear fruit. That was the point. Modern life had conditioned me to expect immediate results. Costa Rica reminded me that some of the most meaningful things in life require time—real time, measured not by clocks but by seasons.
And yes, I helped my neighbors.
In return, they helped me.
Together we planted trees, understanding that we would never sit beneath their full shade, but future generations would. We built a new school, not large or modern, but filled with light and laughter. Children walked barefoot along dirt paths, carrying notebooks and dreams, their curiosity unburdened by screens.
We recruited a young doctor, convincing him that a life of purpose could be found far from crowded hospitals and corporate ladders. With him came the establishment of a small clinic—a simple building with basic supplies, but one that brought comfort and security to the community.
In the evenings, people gather. Conversations flow easily. Stories are shared. Laughter echoes through open windows. No one is in a hurry to leave. No one is watching the clock.
The summer rains arrive faithfully, but gently. They fall late in the afternoon, after the tropical sun has warmed everything beneath it. Thunder rolls across the mountains like a distant drumbeat, and rain falls in sheets, cleansing the earth and cooling the air. Afterward, the world smells new again. Frogs sing. Fireflies flicker. The night feels alive.
Mornings begin early, not because an alarm demands it, but because the birds do. Their songs weave through the mist, welcoming the day. The sun rises softly, illuminating the mountains inch by inch. I step outside and breathe deeply, the pure mountain air filling my lungs.
This is a place where silence is not empty. It is full—of wind through leaves, of distant water, of life quietly unfolding.
Living here has taught me that stress is not inevitable. It is often self-inflicted, a byproduct of choices we never stop to question. Costa Rica invites you to question everything you thought was necessary. It asks: Do you really need more, or do you simply need less?
Less noise.
Less hurry.
Less distraction.
In exchange, it offers more presence.
More connection.
More peace.
This is not an escape from reality. It is a return to it.
Here, I have learned to live in the moment—not as a philosophical idea, but as a daily practice. To drink coffee slowly. To watch clouds move across the sky. To listen fully when someone speaks. To work with my hands and rest without guilt.
This place has become a sanctuary of the mind.
And perhaps that is what so many of us are searching for—not a different world, but a different way of being in it.
In Costa Rica, I found a life where time no longer chases me. Instead, it walks beside me, unhurried, patient, and kind.
Here, I finally stopped the world—and stepped off.