MISSING OUT ON PURPOSE

Some people go on retreats to find themselves.
I went because I couldn’t sleep — and because the only moments I felt like myself were the ones I spent alone, wandering into the green.

In the days before the jungle walk, my mind was a carousel of half-thoughts and noise, a mix of frustration and sadness I couldn’t quite name. I was miles from home, tucked into a place that promised healing, but the only real relief came when I slipped away on my own.

They scheduled a group outing: a hike to a remote beach to gather clay for face masks. We piled into a van and wound down a narrow, one-lane mountain road. Whenever another vehicle appeared, someone had to reverse until there was enough space to pass. A slow, bumpy ride where hesitation wasn’t an option.

We passed through villages that felt sketched rather than built — children barefoot in the dust, chickens roaming freely, families balanced on scooters. Everyday life unfolded inches from the road, indifferent to our passing.

Eventually, the road spilled us into the jungle. Vines twisted around trees like ancient guardians. It felt old and watchful, like the land had been here long before any of us thought to name it.

The beach was quiet, almost sacred. A purple hammock hung between two trees like a direct invitation. I made a beeline — shoes off, hat on — and climbed in, letting the rhythm of the waves carry me toward stillness.

As a teacher, moments like this are rare — times when I’m not on duty, not tracking a dozen things at once. No demands. No expectations. I wanted to stay there until my body forgot what it had been holding.

While others gathered for instructions, we were warned the water was rough. Most of the group went off to find clay. I stayed behind with a staff member and two other guests. Liliana glanced at me and asked if I wasn’t worried about FOMO — fear of missing out.

I blinked.
“No,” I said.

I wasn’t afraid of missing out. I was exactly where I needed to be.

Later, I wandered barefoot along the surf, past boulders, until I found a quiet stretch of shore. I pressed my heel into the wet sand and watched the ocean erase it. A metaphor I didn’t know I needed.

An employee came to retrieve me — said it wasn’t safe to be alone. I nodded and followed, telling the others I’d catch up. But once I entered the trail and their voices faded, I stopped trying to find them.

Instead, I wandered.

No phone. No map. Just a water bottle and my instincts. The air smelled earthy, like the greenhouse my father kept when I was a child. Coconuts and mangos littered the jungle floor. Vines tangled overhead.

Eventually, I realized I was lost.

My eyes stung — not full-blown crying, just a small leak of overwhelm. Here I go again, I thought. Getting lost.
My family would either worry or laugh.

But I didn’t panic. I didn’t pray.

I stopped. I looked around. And slowly, I saw it:

The way green wrapped everything. The stillness. The fact that I was standing in a place no one else would see — not like this.

This moment wasn’t for the group, or a photo, or a story.

It was mine.

I took it in like breath.

The jungle offered gifts: silence, beauty, solitude. I passed old stones and fragments of something once built — half-swallowed now, unmarked, unclaimed. It struck me how different this was from a film set or a staged adventure. No artifacts to recover. No story to package. Just presence, and the permission to notice it.

Eventually, I found a dirt road and followed it back to familiar ground. I arrived just as the clay group returned, laughing and relieved. Another hiker had gone off solo, too. We climbed into the van together, breathless from the uphill walk.

Back at my casita, a lime-green frog sat by the door like a tiny greeter. Dinner was chicken, shrimp, and chia pudding. I took my plate to a side table, choosing distance over conversation. It was easier to sit nearby than to sit with. Less performance. Less pressure.

In my daily life, I’m surrounded by people — students, coworkers, family. I’m always “on.” But there, in the jungle, I was “off.” I didn’t have to prove anything.

Liliana’s question echoed back. FOMO? No.
Missing out wasn’t something I feared. It was something I chose.

My kindergarten teacher once told my mother she was concerned because I preferred to play alone.
It wasn’t a flaw. It was my nature. I’ve always known how to follow my own current — even when I forget to honor it.

I used to think peace came from knowing the way.
Now I think it comes from trusting myself while I wander.

—Tonya Snyder