Travel Anxiety & the High-Achieving HSP: What Happens When Things Don’t Go According to Plan? (Part Two)

A view of the French Alps near our chalet in Courchevel.

Welcome back to the second part of my travel series! If you missed last week’s post, where a missing email nearly ended my first European cruise before it began, click here to catch up.

After I got back from my European cruise, I was riding a high and eager to return. I didn't have a rigid plan, but I knew I was going to make travel a priority. Then life got busy. Between moving back to Texas and starting my private practice, my travel plans took a backseat—until the perfect opportunity arrived: a week in a chalet in the French Alps with my cousin and her family.

Highland Highs and Alpine Lows

In February 2026, I set out on a three-week trip across Scotland and France. My first week in Scotland was full of precious moments, castles, and rugged highlands. But on our last night at a pub in Edinburgh to watch the rugby match, I made a highly unfortunate error: I ordered the mussels.

By the next morning, I was battling food poisoning on a two-hour flight and a two-hour van ride on winding mountain paths. When we finally made it to our chalet, all I wanted to do was find a bed and sleep for hours, but the chalet was still being turned over. So off to another pub I went, looking like death itself as I sipped ginger ale.

And, as if I hadn't suffered enough, my period began that night.

My week in the French Alps was not what I had planned. Instead of blissfully writing and spending time with family and new friends at the chalet, I was managing stomach issues, cramps, and a bout of depression as isolation and boredom took hold. My high achiever side was furious with my lack of energy, while my highly sensitive side was in desperate need of rest and decompression.

View of the Mediterranean Sea from Old Port in Marseille

A Mediterranean Reprieve

Thankfully, my health was restored by the time we made it back to the airport in Geneva. My aunt, uncle, and I parted ways with our family and new friends and continued onto Marseille by train. During our time by the turquoise coast of the Mediterranean Sea, we visited old Roman buildings in Marseille and Arles, and took a ferry to Chateau d’If. We took in the view of the city from Notre Dame de la Gare and walked so much I thought my feet would fall off. It was absolutely wonderful.

But then it was time for me to part ways with my aunt and uncle and continue solo to Paris. It would be my first extended solo trip, and it might be more apt to call it my misadventures in Paris.

The Eiffel Tower lit up at night

The City of Light (and Many, Many Tears)

When I arrived at the train station in Paris, I managed to get myself and my luggage stuck in two different turnstiles. The official app flagged me as spam when I tried to buy a ticket, and because I had underestimated the lack of accessibility, I ended up hauling a giant suitcase up and down multiple flights of stairs.

I finally made it to my hotel, showered, and walked to a cafe, only to be hit with the anxiety of eating by myself—something I hadn’t felt in years. I felt like a teenager in high school again, nervously looking for my friends. I hurried back to my room and finally let myself cry the tears I’d been holding back for hours.

The next several days were just as eventful.

On my first full day, I missed a group tour at Versailles because I couldn't find the start point and didn't understand the staff's directions. My second day, I got my arm stuck in a closing metro train door because I thought they had sensors—they do not. By my third day, while waiting in line at the Arc de Triomphe, I realized I had been pooped on by a bird (the torturous climb to the panoramic view didn’t feel quite the same covered in bird poop). And by the time I reached the airport to head home, dealing with broken luggage kiosks and flight turbulence, I was an exhausted high-achieving HSP who had completely hit her limit.

The Myth of the Perfect Traveler

Toward the end of my trip, I felt a familiar, heavy weight: guilt. When people asked how it was, I would say it was good, but deep down, I didn't understand why the trip had gone so askew. My inner critic ran through an anxious anthem: Why didn't you research more? Why did you make that meal decision? Why couldn't you handle the metro?

But just as I’d had to do the previous year, I had to face the truth: there were things outside of my control. Anxiety thrives in the what-ifs, and high-achieving stress thrives in the illusion of control.

Looking back, I’m proud of myself for navigating each challenge as it came up.

I’m proud of myself for recognizing my limits. I ordered Uber Eats in my Parisian hotel room because, after such overstimulating days, the thought of going out again for dinner felt like nails on a chalkboard.

And I only have the luxury of wisdom now because of the hardships I faced along the way.

The Journey is the Destination

Despite how my first two European vacations have gone, I still plan on going back. I’ve learned that my sensitive nervous system thrives when the pace is slower and the crowds are fewer. I’ve learned to be gentle with myself when my anxious high-achiever is hounding me for progress while I’m breaking apart. And I’ve learned not to stick my arm in Parisian metro doors, so that’s a win.

Travel and life are both journeys. The destinations don’t matter nearly as much as the things you experience and learn along the way.