What if We Travelled Less?

09 Jun 2025

5 Min Read

Ruka Nakamatsu (Student Writer)

IN THIS ARTICLE

Forget jet-setting. Travelling less—whether by slowing down or staying put—can reveal deeper connections, fresh perspectives, and a stronger sense of belonging!

I was halfway through my third assignment of the week when a friend’s Instagram story lit up my screen—a beach in Bali, golden hour in the background, a coconut in hand. I felt it again: the quiet envy, the sudden need to be somewhere else.

Travel promises so much. It pulls us out of ruts, resets our routines, and fills our camera rolls with proof that we’ve lived a little. No wonder we crave it when things feel dull or heavy. But beneath all that beauty is a cost we don’t see in the photos. Every far-off trip leaves a footprint bigger than most of us care to admit. We try to make it better—choosing eco-resorts, buying offsets, and packing light. But maybe the issue isn’t just how we travel; it’s how often we think we need to.

The Carbon Reality of Jet-Setting

A view of an aeroplane wing and the sky through a window

Flying is one of the most carbon-intensive activities an individual can do. Just one long-haul flight—say from Kuala Lumpur to Tokyo and back—can emit more carbon dioxide (CO₂) than what some people generate in an entire year. And yet, aviation emissions continue to rise, with global air travel expected to nearly triple by 2050.

Even trips taken with good intentions come at a cost. Some travellers buy carbon offsets when they fly—paying extra to support projects like tree planting or clean energy in hopes of balancing out the pollution their flight creates. But offsets don’t erase emissions, and many programmes fall short of making a real impact.

Meanwhile, there’s a lot of talk about greener aircraft—but what does that mean? In short, they’re designed to use less fuel and pollute less than older planes. Think lighter materials that help cut fuel use and newer engines that burn more cleanly. It’s a step in the right direction—but so far, these improvements haven’t kept pace with the rapid growth in air travel.

The Culture of Constant Movement

Two women wearing sunglasses lying on a beach towel, smiling, and taking a selfie

Somewhere along the way, travel became more than just a holiday—it became a form of identity. We trade bucket list destinations like status updates. Collecting countries became a flex. ‘Wanderlust’ turned into a lifestyle, complete with dreamy itineraries and curated photo dumps. If you’re not going somewhere, it can feel like you’re falling behind.

Social media only fuels this restlessness. Scrolling through travel content blurs the line between inspiration and pressure—as if staying put means missing out. During the COVID-19 pandemic, many grieved cancelled trips (I sure did!). But for the first time in years, we were forced to pause. Travel, once so easy and accessible, suddenly became rare and risky. That pause gave space to question not just where we go but why, how, and what it costs—not just financially, but environmentally and emotionally too. It revealed how deeply travel is tied to our sense of freedom and how unsustainable our habits may be.

And now, as travel rebounds at full force, those questions feel more urgent. Overtourism has strained places like Japan, where once-quiet towns now face crowd control issues and rising crime rates. The churn of visitors wears on local communities, inflates prices, and sometimes reduces rich cultures to aesthetic backdrops. In chasing ‘authentic’ experiences, we risk flattening them into something more consumable than real.

Staying Still, Seeing More

We often think that meaningful experiences require distance—that they can only be found on the other end of a flight. But sometimes, wonder is just a short walk away. Hidden trails, hole-in-the-wall eateries, and historic buildings we’ve passed a hundred times without noticing. Travel doesn’t own discovery—we just have to relearn how to notice.

And that sort of noticing can open the same doors we look for in travel: connection, perspective, and cultural understanding. Joining a local language club, volunteering with exchange students, or attending a local event can spark just as much growth. The difference is that it’s reciprocal. It asks us to invest, not just observe.

Stillness, then, isn’t stagnation—it’s a shift in mindset. In a world that rewards speed, choosing to stay still is quietly radical. It gives ecosystems a breather, reduces strain on communities, and helps us see more clearly. What matters isn’t how far we go, but how deeply we’re willing to engage.

Does Travel Really Broaden the Mind?

Travel can absolutely broaden minds. Navigating a new place or sharing meals with people whose worldviews stretch our own can leave lasting impressions. Many of us carry moments like these as turning points.

But maybe the challenge now isn’t to stop travelling altogether—it’s to stop defaulting to it. A thoughtful, well-prepared journey might offer more growth than five rushed ones stitched between deadlines. I remember visiting Thailand, Malaysia, and Singapore all in the same year as a child. I was lucky to travel—but it happened so fast that the memories blur together. Looking back, I wonder what I might’ve noticed if we’d stayed just a little longer in one place.

Global citizenship isn’t measured in miles or passport stamps. It’s a mindset—one we can practise wherever we are. Slowing down, being intentional, and engaging with depth might expand our perspectives more than a quick escape ever could.

A Thought Experiment: One Big Trip a Year

Imagine if, instead of squeezing travel into every long weekend or public holiday, we planned just one major trip a year. Would we choose differently? Prepare more deeply—learn the language, research the culture, and understand the history? Connect more intentionally?

In some cultures, this already exists. In Japan, the tradition of the ichinen ichido no ryokō (‘a once-a-year family trip’) carries more care than any spontaneous getaway. The emphasis is less on frequency and more on depth. That sense of ritual—marking time with one significant journey—shifts the focus from ticking off destinations to creating lasting memories.

When travel becomes less constant, it can become more meaningful. We start to notice what we often overlook—not just where we go but how we relate to those places. Anticipation builds. Attention sharpens. And in that scarcity, wonder feels fuller.

Seeing the World—Differently

Maybe ‘seeing the world’ doesn’t always mean crossing oceans. Maybe it means noticing more—the curve of a familiar skyline, the way afternoon light hits a street we walk every day, the quiet pulse of a neighbourhood we thought we knew. Wonder isn’t always elsewhere. Sometimes, it’s just waiting for us to slow down enough to see it.

Choosing to travel less isn’t about guilt; it’s about intention. A shift from constant motion to conscious movement. From consuming places to connecting with them. From defaulting to departures to discovering what’s already here.

So here’s the question: What if, this year, we chose to travel less?

Ready to find meaning beyond the miles? Prepare yourself with our Foundation in Arts, then progress to one of our programmes at the School of Hospitality, Tourism and Events—where you’ll learn to curate experiences that matter, near or far.

Ruka Nakamatsu is currently pursuing a Bachelor of Psychology (Honours) at Taylor's University. A voracious reader with an insatiable curiosity, she constantly delves into diverse topics, always on the lookout for the next great story to write.

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