Latest news with #KellyBenthall
Business Insider
2 days ago
- Business Insider
We retired early to see the world — but fast travel made life feel stressful again
Kelly Benthall, 54, and her husband retired early and have now been slow traveling for a year. This summer, they spent five fast-paced weeks moving through seven stops across the UK and Ireland. The experience left her exhausted — and reminded the couple why they'd chosen a slower, more intentional life. Plain and simple — hold the tomatoes — fast travel is exhausting. My husband Nigel and I retired early last year to slow travel the world. We've made it a habit to stay in one place for a month. It feels long enough to unpack, exhale, and feel like we live there. But this summer, we broke our own rules. We planned a five-week sprint through the UK and Ireland — seven stops in quick succession, most just five days long. We started in Dorset with a brief, emotionally heavy family visit, then made our way through Cornwall, the Cotswolds, the Lake District, Edinburgh, North Wales, and finally ended with a three-day finale in Dublin. It was part memory lane, part reunion tour, and a whole lot of intentional sightseeing. Some stops held memories for Nigel, others were entirely new. It was a chance for both of us to explore his home country with fresh eyes. We packed in everything from castles and sea cliffs to wild ponies, old friends, long walks, and short pub chats. It felt like an affair, not with a person, but with a different kind of travel. A thrilling, nostalgic, completely unsustainable fling with speed. By the numbers: 5 weeks 7 stops 4 home-cooked reunions 2,000+ miles driven in a tiny car on even tinier roads 178 mapped stops Countless pints and pies It was a whirlwind of firsts — and then the crash. Burning through cash and energy By the end of the trip, my legs were stronger than ever, thanks to all the walking and staircases — many of which felt too narrow for a modern human with luggage. But the rest of me shut down. After Dublin, when we finally arrived at our more long-term monthlong Airbnb in Killaloe, Ireland, I slept for a full day. Even after that, I felt drained. Four days in, my mind was still on high alert — scanning for surprises, wrong turns, or a crowd around the corner. That internal alarm system — so helpful while navigating new terrain — didn't know how to switch off. We had also spent more money than usual. Without monthlong Airbnb discounts or home-cooked meals, the costs added up. We indulged in well-regarded restaurants nearly every day, and we felt it in both our budget and our waistlines. There were a couple of late nights too — 2 a.m. pub closings and dance floors I used to keep up with, but that now leave us wrecked the next day. That's not our rhythm anymore. During the trip, we pushed hard to do each region justice — hiking to hidden waterfalls, exploring caves, storm-watching over valleys, and wandering historic streets. And then it hit me, we were those tourists. Respectful, yes. Grateful, always. But always on the move, like playground visitors: admiring the beauty, but never staying long enough to earn trust. It was the opposite of what slow travel makes possible — the chance to return to the same café twice, to learn names, to show up not just as a guest but as a quiet part of the scenery. That tension wore on me. We were seeing everything, but belonging nowhere. Retired, but still racing The pace wasn't just a physical strain, but mental as well. Fast travel began to mimic the stress patterns of the life we left behind. Before we retired, I spent decades in a high-pressure career, always scanning, solving, planning the next thing. It took me a lot of work to untangle myself from that rhythm. Yet here I was again, dreaming of logistics, overloading my senses, and feeling that familiar hum of burnout. I'd also taken up writing in retirement, but somewhere between documenting it all and trying to feel it, I lost the thread. We had no buffer. No pause. Just momentum. The return to slow And yet, the moments still shone. We found awe on many occasions: sea shanties in a Cornish pub that left us teary, storm clouds that rolled over the lakes like theater curtains, and yes — sharing a pint while standing in line for a castle. We watched sheep graze near medieval stone circles. We wandered through St. Giles as sunlight streamed through stained glass. Nigel even got pulled onstage to dance in Dublin — whiskey in hand, the crowd cheering. We were wrecked. But we were alive. Now we're in a quiet town in Ireland, finally staying put for a full month. One Airbnb. One grocery shop. No checkouts to plan. We didn't retire early to rush life, we did it to be present. Fast travel showed us what we could cram in. Slow travel reminds us why we left the rush behind.
Yahoo
19-05-2025
- Business
- Yahoo
We retired early from our jobs in oil and gas to travel. Starting over again in new places has been terrifying.
Last year, Kelly Benthall, now 54, and her husband quit their jobs and retired early to travel the world. She found the idea of starting over again in new places terrifying. Learning how to manage fear made it doable. Last year, at 53, my husband and I quit our jobs in oil and gas and retired early to travel the world. Many friends assumed we were fearless — that anyone who leaves behind home, routines, and everything familiar must be chasing adventure The truth? I'm not fearless. I'm a total scaredy-cat. I didn't grow up traveling. We didn't hop on planes or dream about faraway places. Our family vacations were road trips to Ohio to visit relatives — reliable, predictable, safe. Most of my family still doesn't have a passport. If you'd asked me in my 20s whether I'd ever sell everything and move from country to country, I would've shaken my head no, probably while breaking out in a cold sweat. It sounded terrifying. Turns out, it is terrifying sometimes. And I do it anyway. For years, I built my life around managing risk. Raising kids, climbing the corporate ladder, and running my own consulting business all required careful planning and staying one step ahead. But nothing prepared me for the emotional risk of walking away from that life. The moment my husband, Nigel, and I got serious about early retirement, the what-ifs flooded in: What if we ran out of money? What if something happened to our kids or grandkids while we're gone? What if we hated it? I've spent my life tuned in to everyone else: clients, kids, even my husband. Somewhere along the way, my empathy turned into a constant state of alert. I was always scanning for what might go wrong. The idea of giving up control, dropping into unfamiliar places, and starting over again felt like a nightmare wrapped in an Instagram filter. Learning that I didn't have to be fearless and just needed a plan for the fear changed everything. I discovered fear-setting in 2022, and it's the single most useful tool I've carried into this chapter of life. Instead of setting goals, you define the nightmare. Then you ask three questions: How could I prevent it? What would I do if it happened? What's the cost of doing nothing? That last one stopped me cold: What would it cost us to stay stuck, too scared to try? It turns out I'd been using versions of fear-setting long before I even knew what to call them. I used them to calm my son after watching Hurricane Katrina coverage, walking him through every worst-case scenario. Later, I relied on them to manage my own spirals over work deadlines, breaking fear into manageable pieces. Fear-setting works at any age — and for almost anything. It's simpler than it sounds. You don't need a course or a coach. You just need a pen, a few quiet minutes, and the willingness to name what's scaring you out loud. I start by writing the absolute worst-case scenario at the top of the page, even if it feels dramatic. Then, I answer the three questions honestly. I learned that getting honest about the worst case doesn't make it more likely, it makes it less terrifying. Even now, after a year of traveling, every time we step off a plane into a new place, I still get anxious: Will I find my way back? Will I belong here? It's rarely the big things. It's the tiny moments of unfamiliarity. It's the ones no amount of planning or money can solve. Where's the grocery store? Did we pick the wrong Airbnb? Will I meet anyone here, or will I feel completely alone? I'm not fearless. I'm not naturally adventurous. I'm just someone who finally got tired of letting fear drive every decision. Fear-setting gave me a way to name the scary stuff, stare it down, and ask: Is this really going to stop me? If there's one thing I wish people understood, it's this: You're not supposed to feel ready. You don't need to wait until the fear goes away. You just need to know that fear is part of the deal — and that you're capable of walking through it. It has been through managing fear — instead of waiting for it to disappear — that I've changed everything. And that's the real adventure. Read the original article on Business Insider
Business Insider
19-05-2025
- Business
- Business Insider
We retired early from our jobs in oil and gas to travel. Starting over again in new places has been terrifying.
Last year, Kelly Benthall, now 54, and her husband quit their jobs and retired early to travel the world. She found the idea of starting over again in new places terrifying. Learning how to manage fear made it doable. Last year, at 53, my husband and I quit our jobs in oil and gas and retired early to travel the world. Many friends assumed we were fearless — that anyone who leaves behind home, routines, and everything familiar must be chasing adventure The truth? I'm not fearless. I'm a total scaredy-cat. I didn't grow up traveling. We didn't hop on planes or dream about faraway places. Our family vacations were road trips to Ohio to visit relatives — reliable, predictable, safe. Most of my family still doesn't have a passport. If you'd asked me in my 20s whether I'd ever sell everything and move from country to country, I would've shaken my head no, probably while breaking out in a cold sweat. It sounded terrifying. Turns out, it is terrifying sometimes. And I do it anyway. Managing retirement risk For years, I built my life around managing risk. Raising kids, climbing the corporate ladder, and running my own consulting business all required careful planning and staying one step ahead. But nothing prepared me for the emotional risk of walking away from that life. The moment my husband, Nigel, and I got serious about early retirement, the what-ifs flooded in: What if we ran out of money? What if something happened to our kids or grandkids while we're gone? What if we hated it? I've spent my life tuned in to everyone else: clients, kids, even my husband. Somewhere along the way, my empathy turned into a constant state of alert. I was always scanning for what might go wrong. The idea of giving up control, dropping into unfamiliar places, and starting over again felt like a nightmare wrapped in an Instagram filter. Learning that I didn't have to be fearless and just needed a plan for the fear changed everything. Putting the tool to work I discovered fear-setting in 2022, and it's the single most useful tool I've carried into this chapter of life. Instead of setting goals, you define the nightmare. Then you ask three questions: How could I prevent it? What would I do if it happened? What's the cost of doing nothing? That last one stopped me cold: What would it cost us to stay stuck, too scared to try? It turns out I'd been using versions of fear-setting long before I even knew what to call them. I used them to calm my son after watching Hurricane Katrina coverage, walking him through every worst-case scenario. Later, I relied on them to manage my own spirals over work deadlines, breaking fear into manageable pieces. Fear-setting works at any age — and for almost anything. It's simpler than it sounds. You don't need a course or a coach. You just need a pen, a few quiet minutes, and the willingness to name what's scaring you out loud. I start by writing the absolute worst-case scenario at the top of the page, even if it feels dramatic. Then, I answer the three questions honestly. I learned that getting honest about the worst case doesn't make it more likely, it makes it less terrifying. Even now, after a year of traveling, every time we step off a plane into a new place, I still get anxious: Will I find my way back? Will I belong here? It's rarely the big things. It's the tiny moments of unfamiliarity. It's the ones no amount of planning or money can solve. Where's the grocery store? Did we pick the wrong Airbnb? Will I meet anyone here, or will I feel completely alone? Never feeling ready I'm not fearless. I'm not naturally adventurous. I'm just someone who finally got tired of letting fear drive every decision. Fear-setting gave me a way to name the scary stuff, stare it down, and ask: Is this really going to stop me? If there's one thing I wish people understood, it's this: You're not supposed to feel ready. You don't need to wait until the fear goes away. You just need to know that fear is part of the deal — and that you're capable of walking through it. It has been through managing fear — instead of waiting for it to disappear — that I've changed everything.
