How a weekend in the Shoalhaven taught me the art of doing less.

I wake early on Sunday, as I always do. I had hardwired my circadian rhythm long ago; my weekday alarm clock perpetually set to 6:15am. But instead of tossing back the duvet and climbing out of bed, I roll over to face the sliding glass doors of my Oceanside Balcony Suite.

It’s my second morning waking up at Motel Molly, a breezy boutique hotel less than 200 metres from the pine-lined shores of Mollymook Beach. I watch as streams of soft golden light pool in dappled patches on the bedspread. My body feels light, my mind quiet; my only pressing thought being the coffee I’m craving from the cafe down the street.

It’s not a feeling I’m used to. After calling Sydney home for more than a decade, I’d grown accustomed to the relentless pace of city living; working a nine-to-five and squeezing social plans, self-care and life admin into the gaps around it. But after just two days in the Shoalhaven region on NSW’s South Coast, I’m starting to remember what it feels like to slow down.

Arrive and unwind

I feel my shoulders begin to soften as soon as my partner veers off the Princes Highway. As if by the flick of a switch, bumper stickers are replaced with rolling paddocks, gum trees and weatherboard homes peeling with sun-bleached paint.

Wafts of eucalyptus and freshly mown grass mix with the unmistakable scent of sea salt, creating a distinctly Australian perfume that always feels like coming home.

It’s a strange sensation, considering I’ve just driven three hours from Sydney. But it’s also oddly comforting, like seeing an old friend after years apart and realising nothing has changed.

Keen to stretch our legs, we decide to find a spot to stop for lunch ahead of our hotel check-in. A quick search of Google Maps and we’re heading towards the nearest cafe.

Housed in a 19th-century converted cheese factory on sprawling farmland, Milkhaus is just 10 minutes outside of Milton in the heart of NSW’s South Coast. Its rotating menu is guided by the seasons, rooted in a paddock-to-plate philosophy that champions local produce.

Our meals arrive fast – pulled pork and apple slaw for my partner, a hearty autumn vegetable galette for me – and we devour them even faster. Takeaway coffees in hand, we opt for a wander around the rest of the property to help our food settle.

I’m strolling among rows of vegetables in the kitchen garden when it happens once more, and again when we arrive at Motel Molly later that afternoon. An almost imperceptible softening, like someone is turning the volume down in my mind.

It’s the kind of change that’s easy to miss. But after unpacking my bag and stepping onto the balcony, it’s the crash of waves from Mollymook Beach I hear, not the constant chatter in my head. It’s the fading of an autumn sunset I watch, instead of the glowing screen of my phone. It’s the start of a quiet unravelling back towards myself.

Nourish body and mind

If the Shoalhaven’s slower pace invites you in, its wellness experiences encourage you to stay. But there’s no pressure to emerge on the other side a new person. Rather than promising a dramatic transformation, it’s a refreshingly grounded approach to wellness travel that simply asks you to slow down and be present.

Unfortunately, stillness has never quite come naturally to me, and old habits die hard. Yet as we arrive at The Heal Zone in Milton, I’m determined to surrender to the process. And if anyone can help me, it’s co-owner Nic Laidlaw.

Together with his partner Madi, Nic has built a space designed to help people reconnect with themselves. He walks us through a quick stretch and breathwork lesson before showing us around the rest of the studio, which we’ll have to ourselves for the next hour.

As soon as Nic closes the door behind him, my partner catches my eye. It’s a knowing look, the kind that says ‘you’re not getting out of this.’ Suddenly, I deeply regret telling him I’d never done a cold plunge before. With countless sessions under his belt, he’s determined to get me in.

The shock lasts only moments, but the sense of accomplishment I feel lingers long after I get out. Somewhere between the initial gasp and the warmth of the sauna that follows, I realise I’d been more afraid of the anticipation than the water itself.

The hardest part, it turns out, isn’t the cold. It’s deciding to feel the fear and do it anyway. Stepping into the icy water wasn’t nearly as difficult as convincing myself I could. And by the time I climb out, shivering and euphoric, I realise I’m capable of more than I give myself credit for.

This quiet sense of achievement stays with me for the rest of the weekend. While restorative massages soothe my tired muscles and long lunches at local cafes satisfy my soul, it’s the shift in mindset I feel most deeply. Here, wellness isn’t a performance. It’s a personal journey that is as much about your mind as it is your body.

Reconnect with nature

As I lay in bed on Sunday morning, watching the sun spill through the curtains, I feel at peace. I’ve eaten well, I’ve challenged myself, I’ve surrendered to the process, to the art of doing less.

But still, something hovers at the edge of my mind, just out of reach. It follows me as I tie my shoelaces and wander through the front garden of Motel Molly. It lingers as I order two large lattes at the Mollymook Beach Hut Cafe and grab a seat facing the sea.

I’m not sure if it’s that first sip of coffee, the rhythmic crash of the waves, or my partner casually inquiring about the day’s plans, but suddenly it comes to me. “Should we go for a walk?"

For as long as I can remember, nature has always been where I go for comfort, clarity and quiet. Whether life feels overwhelming or everything is falling into place, it somehow has a way of putting everything into perspective. It grounds me, softening the blows and amplifying the wins.

Which is why the weekend wouldn’t have felt complete without getting lost in the landscape. While we’d enjoyed a stand-up paddleboarding lesson on Ulladulla Harbour, a guided yoga session by the beach and even a wine tasting overlooking the rolling vineyards of Cupitt’s Estate, we hadn’t stopped and just, well, existed.

Pulling into Murramarang National Park, I’m content with letting the path lead the way. Coffee cups empty and breakkie rolls devoured for fuel, we make our way down to Pretty Beach for the two-hour hike to Snake Bay. Apart from the occasional solo runner, there’s not another soul in sight.

The walking track traces the narrow strip of sand connecting the ocean and the bush, a patchwork of greens on one side and nothing but blue on the other. Garmin tracking his step count and heart rate, my partner forges ahead.

But I’m in no hurry. I pause often – for the giant coastal banksias lining the track, the fairy wrens flitting in the scrub, the pink shells embedded in the sand. It’s only the grumble of my stomach and the blisters forming on my ankles that eventually coax me back to the car.

That afternoon, we veer back onto the Princes Highway, heading towards Sydney. Tomorrow, my alarm will ring at 6:15am. I’ll get ready for work, commute, answer emails, chase deadlines and fall back into familiar routines. But my body feels rested. My mind is quiet. And I can always come back. Sometimes, that’s all we need to keep going.