Fostering Relationships

One of the most profound aspects of living in a remote village is the clarity it brings to the value of relationships. In a place where homes are scattered and people even fewer, every connection matters more. From family members to neighbours, there are just a handful of people I regularly interact with—but these interactions are rich, deep, and meaningful.

This quieter, slower life gives me the time and space to truly understand and appreciate the relationships I have. Over time, I’ve come to accept that not everyone will share my worldview, pace, or values. And that’s okay. What matters is that I’ve found my circle—a small yet strong support system of friends and family who are there when I need them. Whether it’s lending a hand during difficult times or simply sharing a laugh on a quiet evening, this community grounds me. With them, I feel seen. I can be myself—open, relaxed, unguarded. Together, we work, reflect, share, and sometimes just sit in comfortable silence.

I’ve also learned that helping others, without expecting anything in return, is one of the most fulfilling paths to happiness. In this slower rhythm of life, acts of kindness aren’t transactions—they’re expressions of humanity, woven into the everyday.

Of course, not all relationships endure. There have been moments of hurt—times when people I trusted misunderstood me or spoke behind my back. It stings, especially when it comes from those you once held close. But I’ve come to understand that my time on this earth is limited. Every minute, every interaction is precious. I’ve learned to forgive—for their sake and mine—but I’ve also stopped trying to mend what no longer feels genuine. Not out of bitterness, but acceptance. Life moves forward. Maybe I was at fault, maybe I wasn’t. In the end, what matters is not the past, but how I choose to live now.

For me, purpose often comes from being there for others—sometimes for people I know, sometimes for strangers. There’s a quiet joy in helping, in supporting, in simply showing up. I no longer chase meaning in grand gestures. Instead, I find it in the small moments: a shared meal, a conversation that lingers, a quiet walk with a friend, the sound of laughter echoing in the hills.

Relishing these moments—truly being present—is what slow living is all about. When I sit with my family or friends, there’s no rush. No deadlines. Just the joy of being together. We talk, we listen, we understand. These moments feel whole. They feel real. At first, I had to make a conscious effort to be mindful in these moments—but now, it happens naturally, almost as if mindfulness is now becoming second nature to me.

In this simplicity, I’ve found contentment. In community, I’ve found connection. And in mindfulness, I’ve discovered a deep, lasting happiness.

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