Learning to Breathe Again in Costa Rica
The first time I saw Costa Rica from the airplane window, it looked less like a country and more like a single, endless garden. Green on green on green, stitched between two glittering coasts, as if the land had decided it would not choose between rainforest and ocean and simply kept both. I pressed my forehead to the glass and tried to quiet the tired noise in my head: unread emails, unfinished tasks, the feeling that I was always a little behind my own life. Somewhere down there, between Nicaragua and Panama, people had built a whole way of living around the idea that life could be simpler and more present. I wanted to find out what that felt like from the inside.
Friends had told me to expect beaches, volcanoes, cloud forests, and animals that did not seem to care that humans had named them. They told me about the phrase that holds this country together, a small smile of words that locals say to each other in the street: pura vida. Pure life. It sounded like the opposite of the restless scrolling and overthinking that had become my home. So I arrived in Costa Rica with a backpack, a camera, and a quiet promise to myself: I would let this place show me what it knows about being alive.
The First Breath of Warm Air
When I stepped out of the airport near San José, the air felt like a hand on my shoulder. Warm, a little heavy, smelling faintly of rain even though the pavement was dry. Taxi drivers called out destinations, families reunited in bursts of laughter, and somewhere nearby a bird sang a tune that sounded too clear to belong to a parking lot. Behind the buildings, hills rose up in soft folds, and in the distance I could trace the silhouettes of volcanoes that had drawn me here long before I knew their names.
I had flown into the busy heart of the country because that is where almost every journey begins, but I did not stay long. San José is a real city, with its museums and traffic and people in a hurry, yet it never felt cold to me. Strangers gave directions with patience instead of impatience, and even in the center of town there was always a glimpse of green: a tree leaning over a fence, a line of mountains watching from the edge of the sky. It felt like the country was whispering, “This is the starting point, not the destination.”
That night in a small guesthouse, I lay awake listening to the distant murmur of buses and the soft percussion of tropical rain on the roof. I realized I had arrived not just in a different country, but in a place where water, heat, and soil were the real storytellers. I promised myself that in the morning, I would follow the roads that led away from the city and into their stories.
Roads Winding Toward the Green
The drive out of the capital felt like someone slowly turning a dial from “urban” to “wild.” Concrete buildings softened into small houses painted in bright colors, their porches lined with potted plants that could have been houseplants in another life but here grew with unapologetic enthusiasm. The road curved and climbed, passing fields of coffee and patches of forest that looked as if they might step onto the asphalt at any moment.
In Costa Rica, distances on a map can be short while journeys feel long. The terrain is folded and layered, shaped by old eruptions and shifting plates, and every bend seems to reveal a new climate. One moment I was pulling on a light jacket as clouds gathered and the air cooled, and the next we dropped into a valley where the sun pressed warmth against the windows again. Somewhere along that road I understood why people say this small country holds an astonishing share of the world’s plants and animals. It is as if different worlds have agreed to live side by side and share the same rivers.
Listening to the Rainforest at Night
My first nights outside the city were spent in a simple lodge near the edge of rainforest. The room was modest: a bed, a fan, and a window that never quite closed out the sound of the present. During the day, the trees around the lodge looked almost polite, their leaves shining in the sun, their trunks holding still. But at night, when the last light from the dining room faded, the whole forest began to speak.
There were insect choruses that rose and fell like waves, frogs announcing themselves from invisible corners, and the sudden crack of a branch that made my heart jump before I remembered that I was the guest here, not the target. Somewhere high above, birds shifted their weight on branches. In that darkness I could feel, more than see, how rich this land really is. Costa Rica covers only a small slice of the planet, yet it shelters an extraordinary amount of life. Large parts of the country are tucked into national parks and reserves, held in trust for creatures that do not know what a border is.
Lying under a mosquito net, listening, I thought about how rare it is, in the modern rhythm of life, to be surrounded by so much that does not revolve around human plans. Back home, I had spent so many nights with the glow of a screen as my only company. Here, the glow came from fireflies outside the window, and the notifications were the calls of animals that had gone to sleep and woken up like this long before my worries ever existed.
Walking Beneath a Restless Volcano
From the rainforest lodge, I traveled toward a town that lives in the shadow of Arenal, one of the country’s most well-known volcanoes. As we approached, its cone appeared between the clouds, steep and perfectly shaped, like a question mark pressed into the sky. Even when the summit was hidden, I could feel its presence in the warm air and the dark, fertile soil. People here speak of eruptions the way others talk about old storms: with respect, familiarity, and a quiet memory of nights lit by fire.
Hiking near the volcano, the trail wound over old lava flows, now softened by grasses and small trees. Signs reminded us that this beauty had been fierce once, that the rocks under our feet had once moved like liquid. In the distance, I could see plumes of steam rising from hot springs where water met underground heat. I thought about how this country lives with constant reminders that the ground below it is not entirely still, and how that might shape a culture that values the present so deeply.
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| I stand on the trail as mist rises, listening to the forest breathe. |
Later, soaking in one of those hot pools, I watched the hillside glow with scattered lights from nearby homes and hotels. Around me, strangers lowered their voices, as if we were all in a shared chapel built from rock and water. It struck me that in a world obsessed with control, this country has accepted that some forces will always be larger than us. The volcano sleeps and stirs on its own terms; people plant gardens in its shadow anyway, laughing, raising children, building lives in partnership with something they cannot tame.
Learning the Language of Waterfalls
One of my favorite days in Costa Rica began with the sound of water long before I saw it. I followed a trail that descended through forest, each step taking me deeper into shade and birdsong. Roots twisted across the path like old handwriting, and the air grew cooler as if the waterfall ahead were already rewriting the temperature. When the trees finally opened, a curtain of white water fell into a pool the color of glass mixed with jade.
I sat on a rock at the edge, shoes off, feet in the cold water, and watched local families and travelers share the same amazement in different languages. Children shrieked with delight, adults lowered themselves slowly into the pool, testing its honesty. In that moment, I felt how easy it was to forget that this beauty is not guaranteed anywhere. Rising temperatures, shifting rain patterns, and human carelessness could change these places. Yet here, the country has made a deliberate choice to protect a large portion of its land, to treat waterfalls and forests not as decorations but as essentials. It made me wonder what choices I could make, in my own small life, to protect the things that keep me human.
Mornings Suspended in the Cloud Forest
From the low, humid forests and volcanic plains, I climbed again, this time toward the cloud forests perched high in the mountains. The road tightened, hugged steep slopes, and then finally delivered me into a different world: cool, quiet, wrapped in mist. In the early hours, clouds drifted between the trees, not above them. Leaves caught tiny droplets and released them in patient taps onto the forest floor.
Walking across a hanging bridge, I felt suspended not only above a deep ravine but between two ways of living. On one side was the life I had known: constant noise, overflowing calendars, a sense that rest had to be earned through exhaustion. On the other side was this place, where plants thrived in filtered light and humidity, and where every epiphyte clinging to a branch was a reminder that not everything needs solid ground to grow. Birds with bright feathers slipped between branches, and somewhere in the distance, a monkey called out like an echo from another century.
Later that day, I watched other travelers clip into harnesses and glide along cables stretched above the canopy, racing whoops across the valleys. I chose a slower pace, returning to the trails. There was something deeply healing in taking each step deliberately, listening to the soft squelch of earth under my boots, letting the forest set the speed instead of my anxiety. In a country known for adventure, there is also space for those of us whose bravest act is to slow down.
Salt, Sun, and the Pacific Horizon
Eventually, the mountains gave way to the pull of the Pacific. I found myself on a beach where the sand was the color of toasted sugar and the waves rolled in with an easy confidence, one after another. Pelicans skimmed the surface of the water, surfers waited like patient silhouettes beyond the break, and somewhere behind the palms, someone was frying plantains for lunch.
On this coast, you can spend the day swimming, snorkeling, or taking a boat ride to look for dolphins and sea turtles. The underwater world along these shores holds its own crowded city of color and movement. I slipped beneath the surface with a mask and snorkel and watched schools of fish flash like spilled coins in the sunlit water. Every breath through the tube drew a thin line between fear and trust: fear of the vastness below me, trust that this place was still healthy enough to hold so much life.
As the sun began to sink, the sky layered itself in shades of orange and soft purple. People gathered quietly along the shore, as if answering a call to evening ceremony. No one announced it; the light simply changed, and we changed with it. I felt sand between my toes, salt on my lips, and a kind of calm I had not known in years. The endless horizon asked nothing of me and gave everything.
Small Rooms, Shared Tables, Open Hearts
One of the surprises of traveling through Costa Rica was how quickly each place began to feel familiar. I stayed in small hotels, family-run guesthouses, and once in a rented house where the neighbor’s dog adopted me for a week. Everywhere I went, there was a shared habit of hospitality that did not feel rehearsed. People asked where I was from with genuine curiosity, not as a script that would lead to a sales pitch.
Meals became their own kind of travel. I learned the comfort of starting the day with rice and beans, eggs, and coffee strong enough to cut through lingering sleep. I tasted fresh fruit that seemed to carry the exact color of the landscape into its flavor. At dinner, it was common to see plates of simple food that somehow felt luxurious in their honesty: grilled fish, sweet plantains, salad bright with lime. For someone coming from a life of rushed snacks eaten in front of screens, sitting at a table with time to chew felt radical.
There was also a sense of safety that settled into my bones over time. Of course, like any country, Costa Rica is not perfect or free from risk, but walking home along a quiet road after a shared meal, listening to crickets and distant voices instead of sirens, I realized how much tension I usually carried in my shoulders. Here, my body slowly remembered what it felt like not to flinch at every unknown sound.
Traveling Light in a Heavy World
As the days turned into weeks, I noticed how my priorities shifted. The heavy thoughts I had brought with me—about money, career, the constant pressure to optimize every moment—did not disappear, but they loosened their grip. It is difficult to obsess over small failures when you have just watched a troop of monkeys leap through branches above your head or stood in front of a crater lake so blue it seems to glow from within.
In a world full of frightening headlines about environmental damage, visiting a country that has chosen to guard so much of its land felt like a lesson and a quiet challenge. Large portions of Costa Rica are protected as parks and reserves, not as decoration but as living classrooms and homes for countless species. Tourism here depends on those choices; visitors like me come because there is still something wild to meet. I left with a deeper understanding that every trip has an impact, and that choosing guides and tours that respect the land is part of what it means to travel with conscience.
At the same time, this journey reminded me that eco-tourism is not about perfection. I still took flights, still used resources, still made mistakes. But I also listened, asked questions, filled reusable bottles at springs instead of buying plastic, and chose smaller, local places to stay whenever I could. The point was not to erase my footprint completely, but to walk more gently and learn as I went.
What I Carried Home From Costa Rica
On my last morning, I woke up before the first light reached the hills and stood outside with my suitcase already zipped. The air was cool, the sky a soft gray, and the sounds of birds opening the day filtered through the stillness. I felt that familiar ache of leaving a place that has begun to feel like another version of home. This country, resting between two oceans with its rivers, forests, and volcanoes, had changed the way I understood both travel and myself.
I realized that what I was taking home was not just photographs of toucans or sunsets, not just souvenirs or stories about whitewater rafting and zip lines. I was carrying an altered way of breathing: slower, deeper, more willing to notice the way light falls through leaves or how rain smells differently on warm soil. I was bringing back an example of a place that has chosen, imperfectly but intentionally, to honor the living world that supports it.
Since returning, there are days when my screen is once again the brightest thing I see and my thoughts race ahead of my body. On those days, I close my eyes and imagine standing on that trail near the volcano again, watching mist rise from green slopes while the forest hums around me. Costa Rica taught me that even in a restless age, there are still corners of the earth where life is organized around care—for land, for animals, for one another. Visiting was not an escape from reality; it was a reminder of what reality could look like when we choose to live a little closer to the pure life waiting underneath all our noise.