In Jamaica, I Learned the Art of Slowing Down

I rushed through the lobby, mentally calculating everything I needed to do and how quickly I could do it when a man with flawlessly blended makeup and an even better smile stopped me. “Are you Raquel,” the hotel manager asked softly. “Yes,” I said, apologizing. “I’m so sorry I’m late.” He laughed. “Not at all,” he assured me. “Slow down. You’re right on time.”

He didn’t know it, but I really needed to hear those words. That entire month of April, I had been in constant motion. I flew from one island to the next and squeezed podcast production and book proposal edits into the hours before and after my eight-hour workday. I attended networking events, hosted watch parties with friends, shuffled between doctor appointments, and helped my nephew finish his senior year and submit financial aid applications. My calendar was packed from morning to night, every hour accounted for before it even arrived.

I was moving faster than usual, faster than I like. More than anything, I needed to slow down. And even though I was in the Caribbean on assignment, I was surrounded by nature, art, culture, and people inviting me to do just that, to settle into the moment and take my time, and I listened.

My first afternoon in Montego Bay, I met Scheed Cole, a sculptor, engineer, and educator. His life-size sculptures of Jamaican artists, freedom fighters, athletes, and leaders are displayed throughout the S Hotel, the only Jamaican-owned hotel and resort on the island.

Every day, Cole visits the hotel to give guests complimentary tours of his work, teaching visitors about giants like Bob Marley and Jimmy Cliff, but also lesser-known figures like Nanny of the Maroons, who led a successful rebellion against British forces in the 18th century, and George William Gordon, a Jamaican politician and activist who fought for better conditions for formerly enslaved Black Jamaicans and was executed for his advocacy.

For Cole, the work is deeply spiritual — it’s how he ensures the messages and legacies of Jamaicans are preserved, told accurately, and understood by Jamaicans and visitors alike. And that takes time.

In preparation for his sculptures, Cole doesn’t just research a person’s height, size, weight, facial features, hair, and clothing. He meets with their families and descendants to better understand who they were when they weren’t in the spotlight.

“It’s a spiritual experience,” he told me. “The pose I want to represent comes from their persona. It’s very personal. As an artist, I’m hoping those who knew them can say, ‘I see this and I feel them.’ And I’ve gotten that.”

When my group — a mix of journalists, JetBlue publicists, and my homegirl Stephanie — made our way to Cole’s sculpture of Bob Marley, he quoted a line often attributed to the reggae legend to explain his point: “The day you stop racing is the day you win the race.”

Not only was it the perfect way to describe everything he had been telling us — that honoring a person, a legacy, or a culture cannot be rushed — but it also put something into perspective for me personally.

As a woman in media, a precarious industry, I’ve been trying to protect myself (and grow) by chasing the next thing: editorial features, podcasts, book deals, documentaries, and whatever opportunity’s next. Honestly, I enjoy the rush. I love the liveliness of journalism and social media. And I’m grateful I get to be a journalist, an author, a producer, a digital media director, and more all at once. It allows me to explore different parts of myself while also creating a financial safety net in an increasingly uncertain job market. 

But the best part of building a fast-paced career is clocking out to enjoy a soft life afterwards. And recently, I haven’t been doing that.

So the next day, after emails and meetings, my friend and I walked over to the beach, admiring the unhurried ebbs and flows of the water, its slo-mo rhythm. Amid the steady lull of the waves and the sound of seagulls overhead, we talked for hours about the things we always gab about — spirituality, relationships, the pressures and responsibilities of being first-gen girls in the States — and some things we had never said out loud before, not to someone else or even ourselves. 

We also laid in silence, letting the sun warm our skin, and allowing ourselves to simply be. When we were ready, we walked into the crystal-clear Caribbean waters, a haven for us as Puerto Rican and Dominican girlfriends who always feel safe, cleansed, and blessed en las aguas del Caribe, whether in our homelands or in the many countries and territories that make up this divine region.

I don’t know how long we spent at the beach that day. Neither of us was keeping time. We were just following a rule listed on a sign at the entrance: ease up. Our deadlines were still there, and our assignments would get done. They always do. And knowing that about ourselves — that we are girls who show up, figure things out, and always find a way — means we don’t have to rush from one thing to the next. We could, like the sea waves, move at a natural pace.

Since Category 5 Hurricane Melissa tore through Jamaica in October 2025, devastating the island with severe winds, flooding, and landslides that destroyed homes, damaged agriculture, and disrupted electricity and water access, the country has been healing and rebuilding. And nature, too, has been a reminder that recovery cannot be rushed.