I didn’t stop trying to see everything all at once.

It happened gradually, without a clear decision point. At first, I just noticed that I was tired earlier in the day than I expected to be. Not physically — mentally. The kind of tiredness that comes from paying attention too hard.

I was still moving, still walking, still checking places off in my head. But something about it felt thin. Like I was collecting impressions faster than I could absorb them.

For a long time, I assumed that was just part of travel.

I planned carefully. I woke up early. I tried to be efficient with my days. If I was in a place for a limited time, it felt reasonable to use that time well. Seeing more felt responsible. Rest could wait.

What I didn’t notice right away was how little of it stayed with me.

I could remember where I had been, but not how it felt to be there. Days blurred together. Places became interchangeable. I had photos, notes, and routes saved — but very few moments I wanted to return to in my mind.

At some point, I stopped adding things to the list.

Not because I had seen enough, but because the list itself started to feel like the problem.

I began leaving afternoons open. Then mornings. I stayed longer in fewer places. I walked without an endpoint and sat down when something felt comfortable instead of when I was tired.

Nothing dramatic changed. But the days felt fuller.

I started noticing when I was relaxed versus when I was just distracted. I paid attention to how often I checked the time. I realized that many of the moments I remembered most clearly were the ones I hadn’t planned for at all.

There was also relief in admitting that I would miss things.

Not everything, just enough.

Missing a museum stopped feeling like failure. Skipping a landmark no longer needed justification. I let go of the idea that a trip had to be comprehensive in order to be meaningful.

What replaced it was quieter.

I remember sitting somewhere ordinary — a step, a bench, the edge of a plaza — and realizing I didn’t feel behind. I wasn’t thinking about what came next. I wasn’t measuring the day. I was just there, long enough for the place to register.

That was new for me.

I don’t think this way of traveling is better. It’s just more honest about how attention works. There’s only so much of it available, and spreading it too thin leaves very little behind.

Seeing everything assumes that experience is cumulative. That if you stack enough places together, something meaningful will emerge.

What I’ve learned is that depth works differently.

It comes from repetition. From staying still long enough to notice small changes. From letting the same street look slightly different at different times of day. From not filling every gap with intention.

Now, when I travel, I still see things. I just don’t try to see all of them.

I choose fewer days with fewer expectations. I leave room for boredom, because boredom often turns into observation. I accept that some places will remain unexplored, and that this doesn’t diminish the ones I spend time with.

What I bring home feels different now.

Less inventory. More residue.

A shift in pace that shows up later, when I catch myself walking more slowly somewhere familiar, or sitting longer than necessary without feeling restless.

I don’t think I stopped trying to see everything because I became wiser.

I think I stopped because I realized that attention is the most limited thing I carry with me — and that spending it carefully makes travel feel less like consumption and more like presence.

That, at least, has stayed with me.