Modern creative lives are often built around acceleration — faster careers, faster visibility, faster cycles of relevance. Geography, particularly in industries like film and television, has long been treated as strategy: proximity as ambition, location as leverage, presence as proof.
Zibby Allen’s story disrupts that familiar narrative.
An actor whose work spans television, film, and theater, Allen is perhaps most widely recognized for her role as Brie Sheridan in Virgin River, where her portrayal of emotional nuance and interior tension has resonated with audiences far beyond the conventions of the genre. Yet her story, like many creative lives, extends beyond the frame of the screen.
What emerges instead is not a tale of departure, but of recalibration — a shift in rhythm, environment, and internal architecture. Scotland, where Allen now spends much of her time, becomes less a backdrop than a counterweight: a landscape defined by age, atmosphere, and an unavoidable awareness of time itself. The result is a life organized less around industry pace and more around perspective, ritual, and the evolving definition of home.
In this conversation, Allen reflects on creative identity untethered from place, the psychology of daily rituals, the quiet appeal of old structures, and the deliberate choices required to build a life that sustains both work and self.
What first shifted for you when you stepped away from the pace of Hollywood life and began spending extended time in Scotland? Was there a moment where you felt your internal clock change?
I met my husband in Scotland while I was there performing a play about ten years ago. I fell so deeply in love that it suddenly shrunk the importance of everything — including this intense grip I had on being in Los Angeles, this narrative that my physical presence there was directly tied to “making it.” That relationship was the first time I was willing — even wanted — to leave LA. It was the first time I loosened my grip on the idea that I’d miss out if I wasn’t there.
Once I left to see about this love, the quality of my whole interior and exterior world shifted. Everything was right-sized. I could feel more space in my body, my mind, my perspective. Interestingly — but not surprisingly — my work got better. Auditions were stronger. I was booking more roles. Then Virgin River came along, and I wasn’t even in LA when that opportunity found me.
I truly believe Hollywood is less of a physical place now. It’s an industry. The pace of it doesn’t really change, and I’m still very much doing a dance with it. I like that dance. I just know the more I engage with it, the more my system requires the contrast of grounded quietude — a totally different culture and space that allows me to hear myself and maintain perspective.
Scotland is rich with folklore, landscape, and history. How has living there altered the way you move through your days — creatively, emotionally, and practically?
We live in Edinburgh, where history is truly in your face everywhere you go. You’re surrounded by ancient architecture, and there’s this intense visual awareness of the passing of time. It creates an instant reverence for time — an ache about its passing — and an inspiration to create as much art and good living as possible.
Practically, it’s slowed me down. I walk constantly here, and that walking time has become thinking time, processing time. Creatively, living among buildings that have stood for centuries makes me less precious about my own work. You realize your contribution doesn’t have to be perfect or monumental to matter. It just has to be honest.
Emotionally, there’s something about the moody weather, the wildness of the landscape just outside the city. It’s taught me to be more comfortable with darkness, with seasons, with the idea that not every day needs to be relentlessly productive or bright. That shift has been enormous.
When you think about the idea of “home” now, how has that definition evolved from what it once meant to you?
Home used to be about proximity to opportunity — being where I thought I needed to be seen. It was almost transactional. That’s not inherently wrong; many people build homes in places chosen for practicality or ambition.
Over the last decade, home has become far more of a feeling than a physical location. Home feels grounded, safe, loving, creatively inspiring. I source that feeling from my chosen family, my surroundings, nature, my relationship to myself, my husband, my dog. In that sense, home could be anywhere — but Scotland holds that connective tissue most strongly right now. It enhances rather than interferes with that feeling.
You’ve spoken about being drawn to ritual and nature. What practices now anchor your life?
Nature is a major resource for me. When I’m in it, I can feel my nervous system settle. That connection led me to herbalism, and tea-making has become one of my central daily practices.
I make my own infusions — cold brews throughout the day, warm teas in the evening. There’s something about the ancient practice of drinking tea that feels like deeply accessible self-care. It’s simple: plants, water, intention. Yet the effects are tangible — calming, nourishing, grounding.
The evening tea, especially, has become my signal that the day is complete. Permission to soften. Permission to let go.
Allen’s Evening Ritual
Allen’s preferred substitute for the nightly glass of wine is framed not as abstinence, but atmosphere.
“I often pour a cold tea infusion into a wine glass at the end of the day,” she explains. “Same ritual, better for my body, similar effect.”
HER CURRENT BLEND:
Oat straw, lemon balm, holy basil, gotu kola, raspberry leaf, spearmint, and hibiscus.
The infusion produces a rich red-pink hue reminiscent of rosé — visually familiar, physiologically different.
What do you think people are really missing when they say they miss wine?
For me, it’s about release — that feeling of the edges of the day softening. I’m not trying to replicate the buzz of wine. I’m trying to actually arrive at the feeling wine promises, but without the cost to my sleep or clarity.
Wine is lovely, but it often comes with a debt. My rituals feel more like a steady act of care. The body responds when you tend to it consistently.
We’re intrigued by your search for a country estate or castle to renovate. What draws you to older structures?
I’m deeply attracted to architecture from eras when craftsmanship and artistry were paramount — when details mattered. There’s something profoundly moving about restoring a building that carries history rather than inhabiting something disposable or generic.
Older buildings possess character. Substance. They feel storied rather than manufactured.
There’s also something poetic about layering new memories within ancient walls — creating spaces where people can retreat, gather, celebrate.
When you imagine restoring a home like that, what matters most?
Preservation is the foundation, but true preservation doesn’t mean freezing a building in time like a museum piece. It means honoring its bones while making it livable and sustainable for modern life.
Comfort, sustainability, beauty — these are not separate pursuits. They’re integrated. Thoughtful updates, discreet modern systems, environmental responsibility. The goal is longevity.
If I had to choose what matters most, it’s integration — where preservation, comfort, and contemporary living enhance rather than compete with one another.
Would you document that journey?
Absolutely. Renovation narratives are endlessly fascinating — the unfolding, the problem-solving, the transformation of space over time.
At this stage of your life, what feels most essential to protect?
My energy. Managing my inner world is the single most important factor in everything else functioning — creativity, connection, clarity. When energy is grounded and replenished, everything flows from there.
If this chapter of your life had a defining intention?
More inner peace, less proving. More tuning inward, less tuning into noise. Quality of connection over quantity.
When you imagine five years from now, what do you hope your days contain more of?
Meaningful creative work, certainly — storytelling remains essential to who I am. But also a deeply grounded life at home: a restored historical space filled with art, books, gatherings, nature.
I want both.
Credits:
Photography by Corinne Moffat | @corinnemoffatphoto
