When people ask me about my future travel plans, I don’t answer with just countries—I answer with emotions. With intentions. With people. Because for me, travel isn’t simply about moving across maps—it’s about moving deeper into meaning. It’s about sharing the world with the people who built mine.

Japan is first on my list—not just as a destination, but as a long-held dream. There’s something about the delicate harmony of its culture that feels like a balm to a weary spirit. I imagine walking through Kyoto’s bamboo groves with my mother, letting the soft rustle of the leaves hush the noise we’ve carried for years. I see us sitting in quiet teahouses, where each pour is a meditation, and every sip feels like a bow to time. I want to show her the temples that have weathered centuries, the cherry blossoms that bloom with unhurried grace, the silent beauty of places that ask nothing from you but presence. And somewhere between the bullet trains and the sacred shrines, I hope my brother discovers wonder again—the kind that comes from ordering ramen in a tucked-away alley, or finding himself completely lost in a city where kindness needs no translation. In Japan, I hope we all remember how to slow down, how to be gentle with ourselves, and how to find joy in small, intentional moments.

Switzerland, to me, is a poem written in white and green. I want to wake up in a chalet tucked into the Alps, windows wide open to the scent of pine and snow. I want to take my brother on scenic train rides, the kind where the silence between tunnels is filled only with awe. This is the kind of place where time doesn’t rush—where a simple walk along a lake feels like therapy, and the mountains look like they’re guarding the peace you didn’t know you needed. For my mother, I picture soft mornings with croissants and mountain views, her eyes lighting up not from extravagance, but from the stillness she’s rarely allowed herself to enjoy. I want to gift her the kind of peace that doesn’t ask for anything loud or grand—just her presence, and the space to be. Switzerland isn’t flashy; it’s grounded. It’s steady. And maybe that’s exactly what we’re all craving after years of holding things together for others.

Norway, with its haunting beauty, feels like a whisper from another life. I want to go not just for the fjords and the northern lights, but because it holds Jan’s roots—his history. I want to walk along the cold, quiet shores with him and his mother, to see the places that shaped his ancestors and, in some way, shaped him. Norway feels like the kind of place where stories live in the land—where waterfalls fall like prayers, and forests breathe the kind of silence that heals. I want to stand beneath the midnight sun, holding Jan’s hand, knowing that some journeys aren’t just about discovery—they’re about returning. About touching the places that explain you. I want us to sit by a fire in a small cabin, sipping something warm, surrounded by nothing but the sound of wind and love. I want to witness Jan’s eyes when he sees home from a different angle—older, wiser, with me beside him this time.

And then there’s the rest of Europe, a continent layered with stories and soul. I don’t have a strict itinerary. Maybe it’ll be Paris, where we’ll walk the Seine at dusk and read poetry in cafés that never close. Or Italy, where time slows for pasta, and love is always served al dente. I’d like to get lost in the alleys of Spain, or visit the Christmas markets of Germany, where light and laughter fill the air like a song. But the destination matters less than the company. I want to travel with my family—not just in the literal sense, but in heart. I want to give them these places not as trophies, but as thank yous. For staying. For surviving. For dreaming with me, even when our lives didn’t always feel dreamy.

These aren’t just travel plans. They’re quiet promises. They are hopes folded neatly into passports, dreams I’ve saved up not just in coins, but in prayers. I don’t know the dates yet. Life has its own way of reshuffling timelines. But I do know this: when the time is right, I will go. And I will bring them with me. Because some destinations aren’t just places—they are mirrors. They show us who we are, and who we’re becoming.

I used to think travel was about distance. Miles conquered. Borders crossed. Passports stamped. But now I know—travel is more about depth than distance. It’s about how deeply we allow ourselves to feel, to notice, to be present in the world and in each other’s lives.

Planning these future journeys makes me realize that we don’t just carry luggage when we travel—we carry generations of sacrifice, quiet dreams, unanswered prayers, and hopes that once felt too delicate to name. For OFWs like me, every trip is layered. It’s never just a vacation—it’s a vow. A way of saying, “One day, I’ll give back more than I took. One day, I’ll bring you with me.”

And isn’t that what love often looks like? Bringing someone along in the spaces you once walked alone.

When I imagine taking my mom to a country she’s only ever seen in photos, I’m not just planning a trip—I’m writing a letter to the version of her who never dared to dream this far. I’m telling her: you deserve this softness. You deserve to see that the world is wide, and so are the ways you are loved.

When I imagine my brother watching the mountains roll past a train window in Switzerland, I’m hoping something settles in him—that life doesn’t have to be a race. That stillness isn’t weakness. That joy can be quiet and yet profoundly full.

And when I picture Jan and I standing in his ancestral land, I think of all the ways love stretches—beyond geography, beyond origin, beyond time. Some places we travel to together; others we carry for each other.

But perhaps the most surprising lesson I’ve learned is that travel reveals us—not just to the world, but to ourselves. It exposes our patience, our curiosity, our wounds, and our capacity to hold wonder. It reminds us that we are not just one version of ourselves. We are evolving stories—unfolding page by page in cities we’ve never known, speaking languages we don’t understand, and finding home in the most unexpected corners of the earth.

You see, the dream is no longer just about ticking off destinations. It’s about creating experiences that outlive the trip itself. A dinner in Japan that becomes a family memory. A snowy morning in Switzerland that becomes a reminder to slow down. A sunset in Norway that becomes a symbol of roots, of return, of reverence.

And maybe—just maybe—travel also teaches us this:
That sometimes, we don’t have to go far to arrive.
Sometimes, the most beautiful journeys begin the moment we decide to live with more meaning, more presence, and more love.
Even if the tickets haven’t been booked. Even if the dates aren’t set.
The dream itself is already a destination.

So, while I wait for the right time—for money to align with memory, for calendars to open, for life to say now—I carry the map in my heart. Not just of countries, but of intentions. Of the people I want to bring. Of the version of myself I want to be when I finally get there.

And when the day comes that we finally board that plane together—my mom, my brother, Jan, and his mom—I know it won’t just be a trip.

It will be an answered prayer.
A soft chapter.
A healing.
A dream that chose love as its compass, and family as its guide.

— Anj ❤