Every time we head back to the cabin, we feel it right away—that subtle shift from tension to ease. It’s not just the trees or the quiet or the dogs happily bouncing around. It’s what’s not here that we notice most.
There’s no hum of traffic outside our window, no endless construction noise, no sirens or cars rattling past. At the cabin, silence isn’t empty—it’s full. Full of rustling leaves, wind in the trees, birdsong, and sometimes the echo of a woodpecker in the distance. Even the pond has a sound: frogs chirping in the evenings, the buzz of dragonflies, or the splash of something unseen jumping into the water.
We don’t miss the background noise of city life. We’ve learned to hear differently here.
Then there are the screens. It’s not that we never use our phones or devices at the cabin—we do—but it’s different. There’s no pressure to respond right away, no endless scroll, no temptation to check in on every notification. Sometimes we lose reception altogether, and honestly, it’s a relief.
Phil usually brings a paperback or an old woodworking magazine to flip through on the porch. I bring a notebook or a book that’s been waiting too long on the shelf. Miles might pull out his sketchbook or queue up a game he’s been slowly enjoying on his tablet, but even that feels measured—like it’s just another part of the quiet, not something taking him away from it.
Without screens dominating our attention, we end up talking more. Or just sitting together. It’s not unusual to go long stretches without anyone saying much at all, but it never feels like something’s missing. The space between us fills with the wind, the dogs wrestling under the trees, or the sound of the percolator starting up again for a second cup.
And then—schedules. We don’t have any. Not really. There are things we want to do: maybe stack wood, or trim the apple trees, or repair something in the shed. But those tasks happen when they happen. Sometimes we plan to do something and just… don’t. We go for a walk instead, or sit by the pond and watch the light change. At home, everything runs by the clock. Here, we’re ruled by the sun, by hunger, by mood.
It took a while to adjust. Early on, we’d catch ourselves looking at our phones out of habit, or feeling guilty for doing “nothing.” But the cabin taught us that nothing is often exactly what we need.
We’ve had mornings that turned into afternoons with no plan at all. Evenings where dinner happened late because the light was just too perfect to come inside. And it’s in those moments—those unscheduled, unhurried bits of time—that we’ve felt the most alive.
We don’t miss appointments, deadlines, or meetings. We don’t miss being “on.” We don’t miss checking our calendars five times a day or replying to emails before breakfast.
Instead, we’ve found a different kind of rhythm. One that’s gentler, slower, and far more forgiving.
We still have a life in Toronto. A busy, fulfilling, connected life. But the cabin reminds us that stepping away—even just every other week—gives us something we didn’t realize we were missing.
Not just quiet. Not just nature. But the freedom to let go. And the joy of remembering how to simply be.
