An open apology to Bear Grylls

A few newsletters ago, I mentioned I was heading off on an off-grid cabin adventure with Margot, my sensitive sighthound.

And I know what you’ve been thinking.

“Nat… how did that go?”

Well, buckle up, my friend, because today I’m serving you the stovetop-boiled tea.

My intention for this trip was simple:

🔕 Three days of wholesome, introspective, creative solitude.
🖌️ Reading. Writing. Drawing. Journaling.
🧘‍♀️ Big silence. Big clarity. Big main-character energy.

This was the reality:

We lasted 24 hours.

Yep, you read that right.

The trip I’d been banging on about for months was over quicker than my last Hinge date.

But you know what? I’m not even mad.

Because you better believe I’m going to turn this failed trip into a newsletter story. I’m generous like that.

So what happened?

I’d already arrived a day late because a) my sister-in-law was visiting and b) I was mildly terrified of trying to settle into a pitch-black cabin after sundown.

But I got there eventually, pushing a wheelbarrow full of belongings like a Victorian milkmaid, guiding my deeply unimpressed noodle towards our tiny woodland home.

The cabin was freezing, but in my head I was moments away from becoming 'Lord of the Flames' that evening, so I ignored it and marched us out for a wholesome walk to a pub via an unmapped bridleway, because why follow Google Maps when you can follow pure delusion?

We made it. We had mulled wine (well I did, and Margot had a handful of dog biscuits). Things were looking up.

Fast-forward to the evening: I wrestled a fire into existence (it required prayer, patience, and several dramatic stares into the wood burner).

I made dinner.

I tried to read.

I got anxious that the fire would go out.

I checked it every 45 seconds.

I gave up trying to be wholesome and watched I’m A Celeb on my phone, abandoning all pretence that I was here to be a serene forest elf.

Meanwhile, Margot despised the entire situation.

She looked at me like I’d voluntarily exiled us from our seaside paradise.

She refused to go to the loo which meant many trips in and out of the cabin after dark.

She stared into the distance like she was waiting for an Uber to come pick her up.

The next morning it was raining, muddy, and every trip outside required a full Olympic ceremony of paw-washing.

My “creative flow” was nowhere to be seen.

I wasn’t relaxed.

I wasn’t inspired.

I was basically a cold, muddy, fire-monitor with a dog who wanted to report me to social services.

So I had a choice: Stay because I’d paid for it… or quit and go home.

I chose to quit.

I heard the voice of a dear friend in my head: “You get to choose.”

I packed us up before it got dark again, wheeled the barrow of shame back through the forest, and we drove home to warmth, routine, and a large glass of wine. Only then did my dog finally stopped judging me.

It's not all bad, though. Even though the trip ended early, I’m genuinely proud of myself.

I drove me and Margot hours into the remote countryside on my own. I started a fire for the first time ever, and kept it going through the night. And I walked to a random pub in a place I’d never been… without Google Maps.

Honestly, that alone deserves a medal. Or a free mulled wine at the very least.

So yes, we left early. But between you and me? I’m celebrating the fact I went at all. Old me would never!

We rarely talk about the very real skill of quitting well.

We glorify grit, resilience, and pushing through. We wear “I stuck it out even though it was miserable” like a badge of honour.

Often we keep going because we’ve already invested money, time, and energy, or we’re afraid of what it might “look” like to others if we don’t follow through.

This is known as the sunk cost fallacy. We mistake past effort for a future obligation.

But sometimes staying is the wrong choice. Sometimes the bravest, smartest thing you can do is leave.

The truth is this: Smart people quit things all the time, in work and life.

They stop early.

They cut the cord.

They choose a different path.

Not because they’re flaky, but because they’re honest.

I first learned this from a tiny book called The Dip by Seth Godin. He says the most successful people in the world know when they’re in a dead end… and they quit early to save their time and energy for the things that truly matter.

And he’s right.

Sometimes the most aligned, powerful action you can take is to stop.
​
So here’s your reminder:

You get to choose.

You get to walk away from things that no longer feel right.

You get to change your mind.

You get to end things early without explaining yourself.

You get to leave the metaphorical (or literal) cabin when it's not what you'd hoped for.

Staying isn’t always strength. Quitting isn’t always failure.

Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is pick up your wheelbarrow of belongings, turn around, and go home.

Until next time, and from the comfort of my home and not a cabin in the woods,
Nat x