How a Summer in Civray, France Taught Me How to Travel With MS

What I thought made a trip “successful” versus what actually made it sustainable with MS

There’s a very specific kind of travel joy that has nothing to do with sightseeing. It looks like slathering a baguette with crystal salt butter in a sunlit kitchen, music playing, doors open, and you find yourself dancing because the moment feels that good. Matt and I had a whole playlist of French hip hop on repeat, and somehow that became the soundtrack of the trip. That kitchen scene is still one of my most “French” memories from a summer in Civray, a small town in central France.

It also happens to be one of the summers that changed how I travel with multiple sclerosis. Not because I did more, but because I stopped treating rest like a reward and started treating it like part of the trip.

Living with MS can feel like living with a variable energy setting. Some days your body feels steady and acts predictably. Other days, it changes the plan for you. Symptoms show up at inconvenient times. That unpredictability feels bigger when you’re far from home, especially on the kind of trips where everything is scheduled down to the minute.

For a long time, I thought a “successful” vacation meant packing in the itinerary. Early mornings, long walking days, multiple stops, the pressure to make the moment count because I’m someplace new and I traveled far to be there. I treated rest like something you earn after you do enough.

Then I had a summer in rural France that quietly rewired that definition.

I was housesitting in Civray, and it was one of my first pet sits. I’d been trusted to care for a sweet brown puppy named Milo in a gorgeous countryside chateau. Most days were simple: slow walks, open air, a pace that did not ask me to prove anything. And yes, dancing in the kitchen while eating French bread.

I remember the moment the shift happened. One evening as the sun went down, Matt and I walked with Milo down a narrow grassy track that opened out near the edge of a farm. Milo took off through a field of rapeseed flower blooms, a dense sea of bright yellow that looks unreal in the sun. The plants were waving in the wind, taller than you expect, the whole field moving in sync. He ran straight through it, disappearing and reappearing, pure puppy joy.

I stood at the edge with my cane in one hand and the long leash in the other, and I took a deep breath and let the scene land. And in that moment, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time: lightness.

Not “endless stamina” lightness. More like my body wasn’t bracing. I wasn’t scanning for what might go wrong. I wasn’t negotiating with myself every few minutes. I was just there, and I felt okay inside myself.

And that’s the part I want to name clearly, because it’s easy to miss if you think travel only “counts” when it looks a certain way. That summer showed me that the success of a trip isn’t always measured in how far you went or how many excursions you did. Sometimes it’s measured in how relaxed you felt and how many moments of joy you get to take home with you.

What I expected vs what I got

What I expected:
A trip that looked impressive. A schedule that stayed full. A version of me who could keep up.

What I got:
A home base. Space between moments. Enough calm that my body wasn’t on high alert all day.

That’s the shift. Slow travel is not a consolation prize. It’s a stable strategy. It creates room for rest before you’re depleted. It gives you flexibility when symptoms change. It lets you enjoy where you are instead of spending the whole trip trying to keep up with it.

The Short & Sweet

Choose one home base and stay put longer than you think you should. Plan one main thing a day and let the rest be optional. Build in rest before you’re wiped. Slow travel works because it gives you room to adjust in real time, without turning every day into a test of endurance.