We’re told that travel is for escaping. Exploration. Finding ourselves. Change.
In recent years, my travels have been comfortable. Predictable, safe; filled with activities I knew I like.
Then along came my nephews, and the impetus to give them opportunities that my sister and I never had in our childhoods.
Suddenly, I find myself in places I wouldn’t have naturally chosen, and doing activities that terrify me.
Like skiing and navigating bunny slopes. Like water parks and going down twisting, gravity-defying slides. Like amusement parks and charging down from great heights.
(Maybe this whole piece is about a fear of heights I didn’t formally realize I have.)
The boys rush into each new experience, squealing with laughter. I hesitate, climbing the heights with my heart pounding each time.
They laugh when I scream, and insist they aren’t scared at all.
But there is something infectious in their enthusiasm, and something humbling about their trust in the process. They don’t pause to overthink.
So, I try.
I try to rediscover wonder in places I’ve avoided and overlooked. Lead through discomfort, and push through the fear. It’s the core thesis of travel, right? Discovering parts of ourselves that that remain dormant, until we’re forced to confront them.
It doesn’t always work, but sometimes it is the thought that counts. I try, conceptually, to grow.
(And not just from eating a lot of good food, because “vacation”.)
These trips aren’t the poetic solo travel we romanticize. They’re loud, chaotic, and emotions get big. But they’re also transformative, with the change that comes from within and beyond.
I still hesitate at the top. But now, I’m learning to look forward to that moment when fear gives way to exhilaration.
When it does, I know what I’d have gained — these memory dividends that we’ll reap, for years to come.