Language is a funny thing. We slap labels on ways of life that already exist. We give names to ideas, but the spirit of them often lived long before the words ever arrived. My parents would never have called it slow living. In fact, my mum laughed recently when we were talking about my slow living blog. “I’ve never heard anyone call it slow living!” she said. She was thinking about all the little principles she and my dad naturally wove into our family life and how now they’ve found a home in my work. I’m out here sharing them like they’re some brand-new philosophy! Ha!
“I dunno though, Candis,” she added, “slow makes us sound like we were lazy.” It’s a common misconception that slow means lazy. But if you can pay your bills, feed (and actually nourish) a whole family, stay present with your community, take real days of rest and slip away on the occasional vacation—all with modest means and a whole lot of ease—I say, hell yeah, let’s be lazy!
For my parents, slow living was never a trend or a philosophy. It wasn’t part of the modern slow living movement or some minimalist lifestyle trend. It wasn’t something to achieve. It wasn’t a flex. It was, and still is, a spiritual path. A way of moving through life like you trust it. Whether they name it or not is beside the point. What I saw, year after year, was a way of living rooted in presence and deep rest. In love. In friendship and community. In valuing health, creativity, and the quiet art of being content exactly where you are. With their feet on the ground, their arms wide open, and their hearts tuned to the simple joys that so many people speed right past.
It wasn’t a lifestyle they adopted. It was just… life. They weren’t hurrying toward a destination. They weren’t trying to become something. They were simply being. And somehow, that made all the difference.
My Slow Life As a Kid Growing Up in Australia
Some things you only recognize in hindsight—the way a place shapes you, the way a childhood lingers under your skin. I didn’t know it then, but I was growing up inside a kind of slow magic.
I grew up in rural Australia, moving every couple of years for my dad’s work as a pastor. But my fondest, earliest memories are from a little town called Cooran, nestled at the base of the Cooran mountain in the lush hinterland near the Sunshine Coast.
We lived in an old Queenslander, a wooden-slat house built up on stilts to withstand floods and catch the breeze during the blazing summers. Our home sat on two acres of wild, lush land and my childhood was spent darting between the lines of trees, picking mulberries from the bush way out near the fence line, and sliding down a makeshift water slide made from a piece of red tarp slicked with water and dish soap, flooding half the backyard.
My brother Dion and I would collect mulberries in a bucket, haul them back to the house, and pour them out onto the warm concrete behind the kitchen. We’d sort through them for worms, staining our hands dark purple, munching as we worked, our little spirits peaceful and content.
Like so many kids growing up in the ’90s, we spent most of our time outdoors, exploring the yard, playing with the neighborhood kids, and trying not to get caught trespassing at the mountain. We had a simple childhood lifestyle. The town was tiny, just a few hundred residents and a single block of shops. Each house sat only a few meters apart, but the dense green bush wrapped around everything, making it feel like we lived in a world of our own.
On weekends, Mum and Dad would pile us into our red convertible Volkswagen Beetle, the four of us squeezed in with the top down, winding our way through the rainforest to go Bunya nut picking. I loved that little car. The feeling of wind tangling my hair, the warm sun overhead, the kind of happiness that I now know only comes from having absolutely nowhere you need to be. After picking nuts, we’d head home and sit for hours in the backyard, cracking open the tough shells and roasting them in the oven with a sprinkle of salt, and eating them until we were stuffed.
We were vegetarian, and Mum was a mean cook. Every day she’d bake fresh homemade bread, whip up cashew nut cream for our fruit salads, simmer tomato and lentil stews, roll meatballs from a mash of nuts and grains, and make many other delightful and decadent whole food treats.
Saturdays were sacred. Sabbath. A day of rest stitched into the fabric of our lives: no schoolwork, no television, no rush. Just the slow rhythm of church in the morning and socializing and relaxing in the afternoon. Dad would preach, telling stories and sharing encouragement from the pulpit, while Mum made sure the house was ready to welcome friends and strangers alike. Fridays were her “Preparation Day,” cleaning, cooking, shopping, so that on Saturday, she could rest alongside us. Nothing to do, nowhere to be. Just full presence with ourselves, each other, and our friends. Long afternoons spent eating, talking, napping, or exploring the nearby dams and trails.
We lived a simple life. A sweet life. A slow-paced childhood that so many kids these days aren’t afforded. Of course, back then, I didn’t fully understand the beauty of it. What kid (or teenager) wants to be stripped of TV for a full 24 hours? But even then, I could feel the difference in my body. A softness. A slowing. A certain excitement that would bubble up when Sabbath ended and it was time to reengage with the outside world—a feeling of being refreshed, reset. Even if I couldn’t name it yet, something inside me recognized the gift.
How I Got Caught Up in the Fast Life
As a stereotypical country kid, I craved the glitz and glamor of the big city and dreamed of escaping small town life for a fast-paced urban lifestyle filled with ambition, career success, and hustle culture. I imagined myself living in a beautiful, modern apartment—the kind you see in movies, with floor-to-ceiling windows, gleaming marble countertops, and a kitchen open enough to entertain guests in style. My building would have a doorman and an elevator that opened straight into my penthouse. I’d be steps away from everything… the buzz of the city, the lifestyles of the rich and famous.
I’d be the boss, the kind of woman who wore a fitted black pantsuit and stiletto heels, and who never hesitated to walk into a room and own it. I’d be the one giving the orders, the one everyone listened to, the one who had it all figured out. When I wasn’t ruling every room I stepped into, I’d be jet-setting across the globe. Summers in Italy, wandering through cobblestone streets. Winters in Switzerland, skiing the pristine slopes. Spring in Japan, my feet dancing under cherry blossoms. A vision of success wrapped in a high-rise apartment and an endless series of airports. I daydreamed in technicolor, imagining a life rich in romance and financial success, underpinned by the sense that I had truly arrived.
But then life had its own plans. I came to the USA in 2010, with a deep desire to connect with my Dad’s side of the family and learn about my black roots. In the whirlwind of my heart and soul, I met a man, married him in a rush of longing and desperation, and suddenly found myself thrust into the world of deadlines and ambitions, in this land so far from home. I wanted to prove that I was “somebody”. To become important, to build my empire and leave behind a legacy that would echo through time. A series of late nights staring at my laptop, my fingers pulsing across the keyboard, long days working a day job, followed by early mornings spent attempting to create an online business that never seemed to love me back. I pushed. I worked. I toiled. And the reward was always more of the same: an empty bank account, health issues that seemed to come out of nowhere, and a marriage that felt like it was unraveling faster than I could keep up with.
In the middle of it all, there were days when I would ask myself: Why am I doing this? I was moving fast, trying to outrun the ticking clock. Pushing harder. Building something that didn’t resonate, even with me, and desperately trying to reach a version of success that felt hollow at its core.
There are things you know, deep down, even when you’re too busy to hear them. How society pulls us into its relentless race, convincing us that we need to keep up, keep pushing, keep fighting for survival. We’re told that the more we have, the more important we become. We forget that somewhere within us, there’s already enough. And if we slow down just long enough to listen, we’ll hear that quiet voice telling us that peace, love, and joy are not destinations, but moments already here. But at that time, I didn’t know how to listen. I was too busy trying to prove myself, too busy chasing something I didn’t need, too caught up in the noise.
It took years, and a lot of pain, to understand that I couldn’t work harder, push harder, strive any longer. And when I finally stopped trying to outrun myself, when I slowed down enough to hear that voice, I realized: I was already whole. Already enough. And better yet, loved and supported by all of Life.
In that moment, I felt the magic begin to stir inside me. The long, sacred journey back home to myself had begun.
What Does it Mean to Come Home To Yourself?
Coming home to yourself is a process of remembering. It’s the slow, often uncomfortable, but profoundly beautiful work of stripping away everything that isn’t truly yours—all the ideas, expectations, and conditionings that the world has placed on your shoulders. It’s about peeling back the layers of “shoulds” and “musts,” and returning to the deep well of stillness within you. That sacred, quiet place that is untouched by the chaos of the world. That place that has always known who you are.
Coming home is about going inward and staying there long enough to feel into the truth. Not the truth you were taught to believe. Not the truth you adopted to survive. The deeper truth. The one that speaks in a voice so soft, so sure, you can only hear it when you finally slow down enough to listen.
From that place, you begin to rewrite your story. You find the courage to decide for yourself who you are, what you believe, and how you want to live your one precious life. It’s coming back into harmony with your own being and into a way of living that is less about striving and more about trusting, less about proving and more about simply being.
For me, it looked like reconnecting with the essence of my upbringing and with the simple, distilled lessons gifted to me by two beautiful souls who knew that life was meant to be lived differently. They taught me that true success was measured in the quality of your relationships, the strength of your health, your connection to the earth beneath your feet, and the nourishment that comes from deep, real rest. They taught me that life, at its best, is slow. Natural. Harmonious.
Coming home to myself meant shedding the layers of hustle and disconnection I had picked up along the way and returning to the rhythm of nature, to the truth that I am not separate from the world around me. I am a part of the Whole. A loving, relaxed, trusting human being. Because that’s who we are when we stop trying to be anything else.
From that place, life doesn’t have to be a frantic race anymore. It becomes a slow, soulful unfolding. A homecoming to the life you were always meant to live.
Related: What is Slow Living? An Unexpected Path to Freedom.
7 Slow Living Lessons I Learned From My Parents (And How They Led Me Home to Myself)
1. Rest is Sacred: Slowing Down Isn’t Lazy—It’s Holy
For Mum and Dad, rest wasn’t just a good idea—it was sacred and biblical. Growing up, rest was baked into the very rhythm of our week. A non-negotiable. Our entire week felt like a slow build-up to that holy pause. Even “Preparation Day,” as Mum called it, was its own ritual: cleaning, cooking, organizing. Getting ready to honor the Sabbath.
But here’s the important distinction: we didn’t just rest, we rested sacredly. Sacred rest is different from regular rest; it’s not about checking out, it’s about checking in. It’s intentional. It’s permission to lay down the work, the worries, the world, and simply be. Those sacred rests shaped me. They taught me that I am not what I produce, that my worth isn’t tied to my hustle, and that the best things in life often happen in the stillness between the doing. Today, when I feel the world rushing me, I remember: Rest isn’t something you earn after working hard enough. It’s a birthright. It’s holy.
2. Be Present: Make Space for Moments that Matter
Our sacred rest days weren’t just about napping and eating—they were about true presence. During those days, we put away the distractions: no homework, no TV, no noise pulling us away from the moment. We had no smartphones (Myspace only hit when I was about 16!). So being present wasn’t forced; it was simply how we lived. We’d spend time outside in nature or just sprawled out on the living room floor, listening to old gospel and soul music float through the house. We talked. We laughed. We wandered around in the slow kind of boredom that eventually gave way to creativity and connection.
Presence wasn’t something we had to schedule or force; it was the air we breathed. I learned to really see people, to feel life instead of just moving through it. And today, when the buzz of the world tries to drag me out of the moment, I find myself craving those slow afternoons. Those moments where nothing and everything was happening at once.
3. Commune with Others: Build a Life Around Connection
One of my Dad’s favorite pastimes was something he simply called “Visiting.” Ask him where he was on any given day and you’d hear, “Ah, I’m out Visiting!” Visiting meant showing up at someone’s doorstep with a big smile, some good vibes, and absolutely no agenda. You’d serve him some tea or biscuits, he’d chat for a while, say a little prayer, and then off he’d go to the next house.
I remember going on so many of these Visits. Oh boy, people loved a visit from Ol’ Franky! He had a way of making you feel seen, valued, and loved. Like you belonged. Today, so many of us are starving for this kind of connection. We crave being truly with each other, not just texting or liking a post, but sitting down across from someone with no rush, no pressure. Just communion.
I’m so grateful that I have a home where I can host my friends, open my doors, and say, “Stay awhile.” Sharing life with others, being there for their pain and joy and everything in between, is one of the greatest honors.
4. Be Devoted to Devotion: Return Daily to What Grounds You
Growing up, we had a twice-daily ritual my Dad called “Worship.” Every morning and night, we’d gather in the living room to pray, read scripture, talk, and pray again. As a kid, I hated it. I cringed every time I heard “Worship!” being yelled down the hallway.
It wasn’t until my slow year that I finally understood the gift tucked inside those rituals. In my early twenties, I walked away from all of it—church, worship, the old stories. I thought I was freeing myself. But later, when life grew frantic and overwhelming, I realized: it wasn’t religion I was missing, it was devotion. It was the daily return to something deeper within, something sacred.
Devotion is the name I now give Dad’s Worship. It’s both a noun and a verb. These days, my devotion looks like daily meditation, journaling, sometimes just a simple stroll through nature. It’s the anchor that keeps me steady, always. It’s not about achieving or striving and it’s definitely not about rules. It’s about loving something enough to keep showing up for it. It’s about love.
5. Feed Your Body Well: Food Is Love, Medicine, and Memory
First, let me say: I often caught my Dad hiding in his office with a bucket of KFC (he raised us vegetarian!) and he always had a secret Twix bar tucked in his drawer. That was just Dad—a mix of health wisdom and human delight. But mostly, my parents lived and taught a deep respect for nourishing the body. My mum even wrote a home cookbook and taught classes on how to make hearty stews, nut-based “meats,” and fruit-sweetened desserts. Our kitchen was a place where food was medicine, celebration, and connection.
Even today, my kitchen carries those roots. I may have a love-hate relationship with sugar (love it; it hates my skin), but my foundation is built on whole, real foods. Food is not just fuel. It’s a way of honoring life, a way of staying connected to the earth, to our bodies, and to each other.
6. Retreat, for a While: Step Away So You Can Return to Yourself
Over the years, I remember Mum going on women’s retreats—long weekends of rest, reflection and sisterhood. Dad’s best friend lived and worked at a retreat center called Living Valley Springs. We’d pile into the buggy as a family and wind our way through the mountains to visit. I always thought the people there were a little strange and the place a bit… uncool. They were into things like detoxing, colonic irrigation, and eating raw vegetables. It felt wildly nerdy to me at the time.
Family vacations were never rushed or jam-packed. We’d drive long distances, stay in one spot for a week or more, and never once do I remember my parents needing a vacation from their vacation. As a young adult, I caught that same slow spirit. I backpacked across countries with nothing but wonder and a loose plan, spending long days soaking in the culture of one place before moving to the next. There’s actually a name for that now: slow travel.
I don’t travel as much now. I’m a little too in love with my dreamy seaside studio in Miami Beach. But I crave retreat. In fact, one of the most life-changing retreats I’ve ever been on happened just before my slow year began. It reminded me that stepping away changes us.
And retreat doesn’t require a plane ticket. A weekend offline, close to nature or tucked away in a quiet corner of your city, unplugged and present, can bring you back to yourself. One of my dreams for The Slow Year community is to one day host The Slow Weekend—a time to gather, exhale, and reconnect. But until then, I hope you carve out space to retreat, for a while. It’s a beautiful way to come home to yourself.
7. Trust in Life: Let Go of the Hustle, Lean Into Peace
A friend recently told me she’s inspired by my capacity to trust. It’s true—I’ve taken some wild leaps of faith in my life: moving across the country (and the world!) alone, ending a marriage with barely a dollar to my name, forgiving easily after enduring betrayal and mishandling by people who claimed to love me.
But trust was modeled for me every single day growing up. Even when money was tight, even when life threw its hardest curveballs, my parents lived with an unshakeable peace. I can still see Dad in a hospital bed, tubes everywhere, cracking jokes with the nurses like nothing could touch his spirit. There was no frantic hustling to fix what felt broken. Just a quiet, steady trust that God always carries us through.
Today, I live that same trust. I believe Life is for me. I trust my intuition. I trust the timing of things. And because of that, I can slow down. I can rest. I can live in peace, knowing that I am always, always being guided.
Suggested: How to Romanticize Your Life: 7 Daily Rituals to Make Life Magical
To the Ones Who Taught Me the True Meaning of Home
I had the great privilege of growing up with parents who were deeply committed to a slow, intentional life, even if they wouldn’t have described it that way. Dad spent countless hours tucked away in his office, surrounded by books and scribbled notes, preparing sermons to inspire and uplift. When he wasn’t studying, he was out “visiting,” showing up at doorsteps with a wide grin, a warm story, and a prayer to leave behind. Mum made our many houses a home, looking after us kids, running craft clubs, leading cooking classes, and filling the kitchen with the scents of something good and homemade. She moved through her days with a constant smile, her love steady and unwavering, creating a world where we could safely grow into ourselves.
It’s not to say my childhood was perfect (no childhood ever is!), but it was pretty darn close. And I’m forever grateful to the two people who taught me what life is really all about: presence, devotion, community, trust, nourishment, and sacred rest. Their example of slowing down, living with intention, and nourishing both body and soul laid the foundation for the life I would one day return to.
Slow living isn’t just a lifestyle. It’s a spiritual path. A way of attuning to something deeper. My journey of coming home to myself has been a journey inward: learning to be still, to trust, to rest long enough to hear that quiet voice within. The one that reminds me I’m already whole. That quiet center… that’s where God lives. That’s what home truly is. I know now that my parents weren’t just teaching me how to live. They were guiding me home. It’s been a long, arduous journey, but I finally made it. Forever grateful for you both, Mum and Dad.
Ps. Want to kickstart your journey to a slower, more intentional way of living? Sign up for the free 5 Days of Slow audio course here.
