Silent Switzerland: My First Co-Living Stay as a Digital Nomad Abroad
What It’s Really Like to Live and Work in a Co-Living House in the Swiss Alps: An Honest Review
ARRIVAL
In all honesty, I arrived in Switzerland unprepared and naive about what my first co-living experience would entail. While preparing for the trip out of America and across the ocean to Europe for the first time, I was smashing through obstacles at neck breaking speed. Hurtling through time and space, I was juggling a broken apartment lease, letters of resignation at work, selling all my belongings, and saying goodbye to loved ones including my own teenage children.
I gave little thought to what would actually be waiting for me on the other side.
CoLiving.Com had promised countless group actives, a comfortable sleeping arrangement with a private bathroom, endless mountains, and communities of travelers sharing meals. The concept was entirely new to me: a way to travel that did not include astronomical fees and isolation that can accompany Air B&B rentals. Coming from the constant noise, traffic, and “hustle culture” pressure of American living, Switzerland sounded like a perfect retreat into peace, comfort, and community. What could go wrong?
Petit Vélan is a small co-living community tucked very high in the Swiss Alps of Switzerland, in the peaceful municipality of Bourg-Saint-Pierre—1,635 meters above sea level. It can house ten to fifteen co-livers on average with four private rooms and three shared rooms. The space also offers a fully equipped kitchen, bar, lounge, workspaces, and a small infrared sauna in the attic.
After two planes, two trains, and a terrifyingly fast, winding bus ride into the mountains, my best friend and I arrived on August 1st, 2024, to complete and utter silence. We took a short 5 minute walk through the sleepy tiny town with stars glimmering overhead and found what we guessed was the correct building. There were no signs marking it as a co-living. Instead, the building bore a massive, misleading sign that simply read “CAFE-RESTAURANTE // Au Petit Velan.”
Despite our hesitation at the restaurant sign, we pushed the door open anyway—willing to risk walking into the wrong building if it meant a hot shower and a warm bed after such a long journey. We found out later that the building had indeed been a restaurant before being purchased by the current owners who found the sign charming and purposefully left it up to pay homage to the previous owners.
It was our first glimpse of what was to come: not everything at Petit Vélan would be as it first appeared.
DISCONNECTION
The quiet behind the door was thick. The darkness, unsettling. We were met with a heavy and eerie darkness. The building was completely empty. I still remember the wave of anxiety that hit us: Had we made a mistake? Was this a scam? Did we come to the wrong location entirely?
As we switched on the lights and explored the space, relief started to set in—it looked exactly like the photos online. But it was missing one major thing: the people. We were equal parts relieved and confused by the total absence of a welcome… or anyone at all.
We eventually found a door with our names on it and stepped into our suite—one bedroom, two beds, and a private bathroom. As we unpacked, we shared our hopes and hesitations, trying to ground ourselves in a place that still didn’t quite feel real.
I wish I could boast about how easily I adjusted to this new environment but it wouldn’t be the truth. As the first 2 weeks unravelled, unfortunately despite the pretty pictures I took for social media, I began to unravel too.
SPIRAL
Despite the house resembling the photos exactly, something about the energy didn’t match. We arrived to an empty space—we later found out they were attending a local event—but at the time, the silence felt strangely loud. No one around. No note. No sign that we were expected. And without any sort of welcome or orientation, we were left to wonder: Had we gotten it wrong?
The next day, our onsite community manager let us know she was only filling in part time. While clearly knowledgeable and direct, she didn’t offer us a tour or any basic orientation unless we asked directly. This led to a steady stream of follow-up questions while she was attempting to work on her own projects—because when you don’t know what you don’t know, the questions pile up fast. And asking can start to feel like interrupting… and interrupting quickly starts to feel like you’re becoming a burden.
The Swiss mountains were humbling in their scale. Bourg-Saint-Pierre was postcard-perfect. And yet, I found myself deeply frustrated by the quiet—from our community manager, and from our housemates.
We had no idea how to use the washing machine or the espresso maker the first two days, and after a long journey that was crucial to comfort. There was a single communal working space on the main floor used for working 9-5 which meant all other activities would have to be done in our small double bed room or wait until the evening. The large stove was so complex we were afraid to touch it at first and we foraged for new linens in closets we weren’t sure we were allowed to open.
How far was the grocery store by public transport, considering the only local option in town was a gas station convenience store? Food was scarce and extremely expensive. Grocery shopping with an hour long public commute to the local city, Martigny, while carrying your food home back through the bus system was not for the weak. There were three other male guests staying in the house during this time, but they had chosen to keep to themselves these first couple weeks.
Even the process to obtain a simple bus pass was unclear—despite asking more than once. I felt myself becoming more isolated with each unanswered question.
Most importantly to me, none of the promised community events—advertised online as a central part of the co-living experience materialized at the Petite Vélan during the beginning of my stay. Unbeknownst to us at the time of booking, this particular location seemed to be better suited for digital nomads looking for a undisturbed and independent retreat.
After nearly two weeks of near-complete stillness, the space began to feel like a slow compression. The only relief came from solo hikes with my best friend and travel companion. The trails in the mountains became my refuge, the only place I could breathe as the pressure built.
The stagnancy we were met with upon arrival wasn’t just in the building—it lived in the uncertainty that hung over everything, as we navigated a foreign environment with little guidance or support.
My mental health hit a serious low point during those first two weeks. I began to question not just the trip—but my own strength. At my lowest, I seriously considered booking a ticket home. As someone who thrives on connection, the isolation began to feel like a prison.
I had naively placed the entire weight of building structure and stability for my mental health in this new environment around the promise of yoga classes, group sports, sauna time, communal meals, and visits to nearby towns. But when none of that was offered, I wilted and the panic began to bloom.
But as a Bellevue, I was raised upon our family’s fundamental truth: reality is what you make it.
TURNING POINT
I hadn’t come all this way—hadn’t sold everything, left my children, walked away from the safety of my old life—just to crawl back home defeated. If I could not find community, I’d have to create one. If I could not lean on structure, I’d have to build it myself.
So I started small. I woke up early and practiced a yoga routine on the cold floor before the house awoke, urged on by the rising morning sun. I let my breath be the only rhythm to follow. I meditated with my best friend in our shared space later that evening and decided to work through this and work together to create an environment that would nourish us.
And suddenly, what had felt like a cold retreat became something else: an invitation to reclaim myself.
Stillness hadn’t destroyed me—it had stripped away every distraction, every illusion, and handed me back the raw materials of who I was becoming. I didn’t need everything I’d been promised. I needed to remember that I could adapt. That I could create joy. That I could choose to stay. And so I did.
I started reaching out more to our co-living roommates. New guests arrived, shifting the house’s energy in subtle, meaningful ways. Conversations began. Laughter echoed down the hallway. For the first time, we weren’t just surviving the silence—we were part of something forming. We even began a self-appointed project to transform the basement space into a communal area for games and yoga as Petit Vélan only featured one large communal work space that was occupied the majority of the day for quiet work hours.
I went on walks without my phone, sometimes even without my best friend. I found solitude to be comforting for the first time in my entire life as I settled into this new way of existing. I finally felt the anxiety and stress of abandoning corporate America so abruptly begin to fade away. I had chosen to believe that there was more to life than spreadsheets, overtime pay, and hour long car commutes to and from the office. It was a relief to find I was right.
A new found confidence in myself began to grow. I began to ask more and more questions to my fellow housemates and community house manager. I refused to shrink or shy away until I understood the answers, even if it meant asking more than once. I sat with the discomfort instead of running from it.
I messaged the co-living owners directly—something I’d hesitated to do for weeks. I asked for help, for direction, for access to the rumored second sister co-living house where I’d heard a stronger sense of community existed. And for the first time… something shifted.
TWO WORLDS
Eventually, we got the elusive bus pass—a simple victory that opened a whole new part of our Switzerland map to the extended co-living community which is owned and operated by the same owners as Petit Vélan.
Swiss Alps Co-Living, the world’s first crowdfunded co-living project, boasts ten rooms, and can host up to twenty two people. A five minute bus ride from Bourg Saint Pierre to another small municipality, took us to this incredible and spacious space that was nestled in a nearby town called Liddes, where we met even more people. This co-living space, we learned, featured all the promised activities and communal meals. It was bursting with energy, excitement, and engagement featuring a very active house, a parallel to Petit Vélan.
We were met at Swiss Alps Co-Living with a warm welcome and countless invitations to participate in varied events. Ironically, I found myself grateful for the peaceful retreat of Petit Vélan after a long day visiting the busy city of Martigny with other Swiss Alps guests, where we danced in the street with locals until the early morning. It was a surprising comfort to return to the more remote option of Petit Vélan after a deep yoga session at the Swiss Alps location.
Even the bus ride between the two co-livings felt like a personal special in between moment, all for myself. I often frequented the many exciting options without my best friend, who found she loved the isolated stillness of our chosen home. I, on the other hand, thrived in the balance between the two locations, at peace at last.
REBUILDING
The final two weeks in Switzerland were nothing like the first. They weren’t perfect—but there were a few organized excursions, a couple of carefully curated communal dinners, and moments I’ll treasure deeply. When I stopped waiting for the experience I’d been promised and began creating the one I truly needed, every moment that followed felt fully mine.
I poured intention into the abundance that was available—pulling from both solitude and connection, restful and activity. What I learned is this: every co-living experience is only as rich as the effort you bring to it.
I learned to meet isolation with structure, crafting a rhythm that honored both the stillness of Petit Vélan and the warmth of Swiss Co-Living. There was beauty in the effort—in choosing, again and again, to shape my days with intention.
Switzerland’s stillness didn’t offer me answers—but it gave me the room to find my own. You get out what you put in. And when you meet the experience with intention, even silence becomes fertile ground.
I finally found myself, not only in connection to others, but in a deeper connection to the part of myself that appears when things get quiet and still. My first co-living experience at Petit Vélan deep in the picturesque mountains of Switzerland did not necessarily give me peace. It gave me the safe space I needed to remember that the peace and power were always mine to choose all along.
And that might be the most important thing I carry forward: Stillness isn’t something one finds, or is given. It’s something one must choose to build—brick by brick, moment by moment, until life becomes a reflection of who we truly are.
Have you ever traveled expecting one thing, and ended up receiving another?
I’d love to know how your own journeys have reshaped you.
Let’s talk in the comments. 💬
💻 For Fellow Digital Nomads: Are you a remote worker trying to find community while traveling: what has helped (or hurt) your experience abroad?