Places Carry Energy Too

I've done a fair bit of travelling this year and it got me thinking about the energy of different places.

Some places shake you loose. Others hold you so tightly you forget who you are. And then there are those strange, in-between places that feel both charged and disorienting—like they’re trying to awaken something in you, but in doing so, they also unravel your sense of self.

Ibiza was one of those places for me. On the surface, it’s all turquoise waters and barefoot glamour, rituals at sunset and a million ways to feel "free." But underneath the aesthetics is an energy that doesn’t sit gently. The land there feels hot, fast, relentless. There’s a wildness that can be exhilarating—but also deeply ungrounding. Something about it buzzes with spiritual stimulation. Not in a nourishing, expansive way, but more like a pressure to expand whether you're ready or not. It’s seductive. It wants something from you. It pulls you toward expression, toward ecstasy, toward losing yourself in the current. But what happens when you don’t want to lose yourself? What happens when you want to remember instead?

Glastonbury, by contrast, was slower. Heavier. More ancient. The land hums with story and song and myth. It feels thick with something older than time. And while it’s undeniably sacred, there’s also a murkiness there—a kind of energetic saturation. As if too many people have projected their longing, their seeking, their need to touch the divine onto that land. And it sticks. It lingers. You walk through Glastonbury and feel the weight of thousands of spiritual journeys overlapping. Some genuine. Some distorted. All present.

In both places, I found myself floating. Not in a blissful, dreamy way—but in a way that made it hard to stay in my body. I felt untethered. Overstimulated. Ungrounded. And in that state, the edges of my own discernment blurred. I began to see more clearly the parts of me that are wary of this path. The parts that have witnessed energy used irresponsibly. The parts that don’t fully trust the current because they know how easy it is to get lost in it.

Strangely, this all made me grateful for London. London, with its buses and bins and boots on the pavement. It keeps me human. It demands presence in a different way—not through transcendence, but through embodiment. You can’t float off into the ether here. You have rent to pay. Groceries to carry. People to navigate. And in that, there’s a kind of anchoring that feels like medicine.

Not all healing happens in the vortex. Not every awakening needs a portal. Sometimes the most sacred thing we can do is stay close to the ground, inside our bodies, paying attention to the ordinary.

If you’ve ever landed in a place that made you feel off-centre—even when everyone else was having a transcendent experience—you’re not broken. You might just be tuned in to something deeper. Or maybe your body’s just asking for a different kind of magic: one that roots, rather than lifts. One that brings you home.