Every Moment, This Moment: What Costa Rica Taught Me
I’ve traveled before. Many times. But this trip to Costa Rica was the first time I can say, without hesitation, that I was present for every moment.
Not thinking about what I left behind.
Not planning what I needed to return to.
Just… there. Fully there.
Each morning, I woke early. Not out of obligation, but because something in me wanted to meet the day before it unfolded. I walked the beach. Watched the ocean stretch itself into the horizon. Took in the layered stillness of the mountains rising behind it.
I worked out each morning with no agenda other than consistency. It wasn’t about performance. It was about honoring my energy, anchoring my breath, and greeting the day through movement. That rhythm became part of the presence.
I heard monkeys before I saw them. Watched lizards cross my path as if I wasn’t in their way. Dragonflies circled me while I sat in silence. Butterflies followed me down trails like little messengers reminding me: You’re here. Stay here.
There was wonder in everything. And I wasn’t rushing to extract meaning. I was just in it.
I spent time walking through tide pools, watching streams of water flow in from the bay, and streams flow back out. The volcanic black sand swirled at the merging points. Constant motion, yet the water remained clear. A simple reminder: nature stays true to its nature.
In the bright blue sky, scattered with clouds, I saw flocks of bright green parrots flying in tandem. I hadn’t known parrots moved like that. I’d only ever seen them one at a time. But here, they flew together, almost like the ocean itself, but in the sky. A wave of color, moving in sync. It was mesmerizing.
I took a day-long tour, one of those packed itineraries you’d expect to be exhausting. But it wasn’t. It was layered, grounding, and full of quiet reminders.
We began with sugarcane pressing. A large bull moved in slow, wide circles, turning a wooden press while sunlight filtered through the trees. There was something steady in that rhythm. Something simple, ancient, and fully present.
Then came horseback riding through the forest. My horse had a mind of its own. It preferred the edges of the trail, walking close to the cliff’s edge while the others stayed center. I had to trust my grip, trust the horse, and come back to my breath. I took in the dense, living world around me, the trees, the vines, the sound of birds. I let my attention settle there, so my nerves wouldn’t fixate on what was to my left: open air and a steep drop. That ride didn’t just carry me forward, it carried me into deeper awareness of what it means to trust, release control, and stay with the moment.
Next was zip lining.
And here’s what surprised me: I wasn’t afraid.
Years ago, I might have said I had a fear of heights. But fear didn’t show up, not because I forced it out, but because of all the inner work I’ve done. The self-trust, the nervous system regulation, the quiet strengthening, they all lived in me now. And when I stepped off the platform and into the open air, my body knew it was safe. I didn’t have to convince it.
There’s something profound in realizing that what used to feel like fear was really the absence of inner anchoring. When logic tells you you’re harnessed, but your body doesn’t believe it, that’s fear, simply an illusion. When your mind, breath, and body all agree, you just fly.
The landing jolts were rough, yes. I had to brace for the moment the braking pin met my harness every time. But as soon as I stepped onto the next platform, all I knew was the next glide.
Later that day, we slid down a mountain on a water tube and ended the day covered in volcanic mud, soaking in thermal pools under the open sky.
Each experience was different, but the throughline was the same: I wasn’t thinking ahead or narrating the moment, I was living it.
I was experiencing every moment of my life in the moment.
And my mind, spirit, and body rejuvenated, gratefully, because of it.