Why I Travel

When I was four years old, my grandmother would sometimes take me with her to downtown Davao whenever she had errands to run. Taking a cab was impractical, so we rode a jeepney instead. As we crawled through traffic, she would always remind me not to stick my head or hands outside. And knowing me, I would do exactly the opposite.

I loved how the wind rushed against my face—the reckless joy of motion, the illusion of freedom. She would scold me, worried that I might fall or clip the side of an oncoming vehicle. Her fear was practical, maternal. Mine was instinctive, curious. Even then, I was already drawn to the feeling of being somewhere else, of leaving the familiar behind. Those short rides through the city became my earliest journeys, and I still treasure them.

Perhaps that is where the longing began. The desire to move, to go somewhere—anywhere. It doesn’t really matter whether the journey is a short ride to a nearby town or a flight to the far edges of the world. What matters is the act itself, and the quiet risks we accept along the way.

I wasn’t born with a silver spoon. My family had enough for the essentials—shelter, electricity, education—but little beyond that. Like many middle-class families, travel was a luxury, not a priority. Growing up, the first week of classes was never my favorite part of the school year. I would listen to classmates talk about their summer trips to Manila, Cebu, or faraway places like Hong Kong and Singapore. When they asked me about mine, I learned to invent stories—elaborate ones, usually involving New York. My love for world geography helped sell the lie.

The truth was simpler. We spent one night at a beach resort in Davao. The rest of my vacation was filled with reruns of Dexter’s Laboratory, episodes of Captain Planet, and hours spent with a PlayStation One controller in my hands. It may sound ordinary—maybe even boring—but at that age, insecurity has a way of magnifying what we think we lack. I mistook stillness for failure, and simplicity for insignificance.

As I grew older, I learned that envy is a useless companion. In high school, a teacher once told us to write our goals in a journal, as if naming them might bring them closer. At the top of my list was a single word: travel. It didn’t need embellishment. Reading Asian and world history books, I began to imagine places not as destinations, but as living stories I wanted to step into.

It wasn’t until after college that I finally began traveling with friends. And from that moment on, something shifted. Travel changed the way I saw the world—and more importantly, the way I saw myself. It was never just about new landscapes or unfamiliar food. It was about placing myself in environments where nothing catered to me: where language failed, customs confused me, and comfort was not guaranteed.

On the road, I met people from vastly different walks of life. I never claimed to understand their cultures after a few days of proximity. That would be arrogant. But my ignorance kept me open. It reminded me that the world does not revolve around a single narrative. Through travel, I learned one of the most essential lessons there is: interconnectivity. We are all part of a vast, complex system—constantly interacting with one another, with cultures, with ecosystems we barely understand. We shape our own stories as we move through them, weaving meaning from chance encounters and fleeting moments.

Looking back, I never imagined I would see the places I’ve been fortunate enough to visit. Dreams, I learned, do come true—quietly, slowly—when you work for them. The resilience travel has taught me now helps me navigate the anxieties of adulthood. Life does not get easier, but I have grown stronger. Wiser. Be more patient with uncertainty.

The world, in all its contradictions, is a beautiful place. Travel is not a competition, nor a checklist. It is deeply personal. A decision to step beyond comfort, to meet the unfamiliar with humility. One I believe everyone should make, in their own time.

What kind of world do we live in? There is only one way to find out. Step outside. Keep an open mind. Carry a willing heart.

In traveling, we are denied certainty.

And perhaps that is exactly the point.