Not a Tourist: Life in Sri Lanka (And the Story In Between)

This isn’t a travel guide. It’s what happens after the arrival, after the airport taxi pulls away, after the sunsets. It’s what life looks like to stay — to build something in a place where you don’t fully belong, but partly begin to. This is a small story from Sri Lanka — of dogs, power cuts, broken plans, and why I created Journeyed in the first place.

A monkey chilling on an electrical pole in Weligama — early mornings in the south of Sri Lanka.

When Travel Becomes Life

I’m writing this on a day with no electricity and no Wi-Fi. Looks like today is about enforced stillness — and, well, writing this post. Power cuts like this are normal here, sometimes lasting from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. You learn to work around them. Or surrender to them.

Last night, the neighbors had a big birthday party. They danced until the early hours. And while there’s something beautiful about being folded into the rhythm of a local neighborhood, you definitely lose sleep sometimes.

I live in a small neighborhood in Dickwella, just inland from the more well-known Hiriketiya Beach. It’s not touristy, but not fully off-grid either.

I share a big three-bedroom home with my kitten, Mango, and, residing in the garden, a street dog family: a mama dog (currently pregnant again) and her four pups. I helped vaccinate and sterilize them while working briefly with a local animal rescue.

Fun fact: the mama dog bit me once. Right through my lip — during a vaccination and neutering attempt that didn’t exactly go to plan. That moment kicked off a seven-shot rabies journey and a crash course in navigating Sri Lanka’s local hospital system.

Surprisingly, it works well. I felt always welcomed and looked after — even if it wasn’t the same standard I’d grown used to growing up in Finland. (Pro tip: one private clinic quoted me $700 USD, but I got the exact same treatment for around 5,000 rupees in Matara.)

Locals gather at Dickwella's Saturday market — a weekly rhythm that starts around 6 a.m.

The Big Plan (and the bigger lessons)

When I returned to Sri Lanka this time, I had a plan: renovate a little oceanfront bungalow and open a stay. I had the land, the company was set up, I had the structure, the design vision — and a full-on “I can do anything” mindset.

What I didn’t have? A realistic idea of the actual condition of the bungalow and land. Or how much construction would cost here. Or that I wouldn’t just be able to “fix a few things” and call it done.

Things unraveled quickly.

I picked up part-time work. I moved to a different area for a while, just to get by. Then came what felt like the dream job — closer to my land, aligned with everything I was trying to build.

Finally, I thought. This is it.

But life had other ideas.

Friends got dengue. One of the pups was attacked. I ended up with a pierced lip, a couple of dentist visits, and a few “what is even happening?” kind of days. The holidays ended. And there I was — in the middle of tropical paradise — feeling more lost and alone than I’d ever expected.

Tuk-tuks and everyday life on a busy street in Ahangama.

The Turning Point

There’s something about sitting in stillness — no noise, no distractions — after your plans have completely fallen apart. It strips things down. It makes space.

I quit the job. I booked a flight to Europe and I didn’t know what would come next.

But then something unexpected happened. I started creating again.

With no formal plan, no business model, and definitely no polished pitch, I began building Journeyed. It started at my kitchen table in Dickwella, with street dogs asleep outside and my head full of “what now?”

Journeyed is a collection of everything I’ve lived, built, captured, and carried with me over the years. The photos, the projects, the journal entries, the little pieces of life that don’t always make it to social media — but change you anyway.

It’s my life’s work in motion. Rooted in creativity, storytelling, and slow living.

And the stay I dreamed of building here? It’s still part of the vision. Journeyed isn’t separate from that dream — it holds space for it. One day, I’ll bring people into that physical space too. But for now, I’m laying the foundation through words, images, and ideas.

Journeyed was born not out of certainty, but from the in-between. And maybe that’s what makes it honest.

Fresh fruits and local food at Sun & Moon — a humble local spot filled with colour and kindness.

What Sri Lanka Gave Me

This island gave me more than I expected: intense heat, unpredictable beauty, emotional chaos, spontaneous community, and a different kind of freedom.

It gave me a kitten. A new space. A deeper trust in improvisation — and in life showing up in its own timeline.

No, I didn’t open the stay, not yet. But I still believe in it and the dream hasn’t disappeared, it’s just evolving. Maybe it will take shape differently than I imagined. Maybe that’s the point.

Journeyed was born here. Not with a big launch. Not on a timeline. But from the middle of a mess — from power cuts, broken plans, and the quiet urge to keep creating anyway.

My neighbor’s kids in Weligama, welcoming a new family member — tiny paws, big smiles.

From Here On

I’m still figuring it out. Still learning how to live between places, build something real and lasting, and share through the becoming.

But here’s what I know: the in-between chapters matter. They shape you. They show you what’s worth holding onto — and what it’s time to let go of. And sometimes, they quietly build the next version of your life.

Thanks for being here. If you’ve ever stayed somewhere long enough to be changed by it — I think you’ll understand exactly what I mean.

I share more photos and stories over on @journeyed.co Instagram. Come say hi.

— Jessica

A colourful local shop in Weligama selling coconuts, water and snacks.