There is a distinct, quiet magic that happens when you step entirely out of your comfort zone and into the unknown. Sitting across a table from someone whose language you do not speak, using a phone screen as an ad-hoc bridge, turns a simple moment into an unforgettable connection. In those fleeting moments, all differences of background, history, and syntax melt away. They are replaced by a warm smile, a nod of appreciation, and the simple, communal joy of sharing a moment. You quickly realize that travel isn’t about collecting passport stamps or buying souvenir trinkets—it is an investment in human understanding. It proves that no matter where we come from, we all ultimately speak the same basic language of kindness and connection.
This Friday, I am not sitting in a sterile hospital room tethered to an infusion pump. My treatment will be delayed by two days, because today, I am in a remote, breathtaking corner of the world: Lijiang, Yunnan. Before leaving, I was deeply apprehensive about traveling to China. I worried about the food, the vast cultural differences, and the common narrative that We might find an insular reception. Instead, the reality on the ground has completely upended my fears. We have been treated here not just with standard friendliness, but almost like celebrated guests. Local students we encountered were eager to practice their English, some even carrying diaries and shyly asking us to write a message for them. The locals we meet often understand nothing of our language, yet they are fiercely determined to help us anyway—using expressive sign language, translation apps, and pure goodwill.
There is a loud, cynical narrative in modern society that traveling is a waste of hard-earned money. For me, there is no truer or better way to spend it. I see the profound returns on this investment every day in my nine-year-old daughter. By bringing her to small, rugged towns in foreign countries, she has learned that a “holiday” does not only mean flying to a generic global city to buy mass-produced merchandise. She knows it means spending time with locals, learning from their daily rhythms, and understanding a profound truth: there are infinite ways to live a human life, and none of them is superior to another. In a hyper-competitive, homogenized world, this is perhaps the most critical lesson a child can learn .
Traveling to remote corners of a new country is the greatest gift you can offer a child at this age, as her view of the world is rapidly expanding. Stepping off the beaten path shows her that life exists beautifully outside of her polished, predictable routine. When she watches a family in a mountain village cook, plays with locals without needing a shared language, or navigates the minor, bumpy delays of rural transit, she is quietly building deep empathy and resilience. It teaches her to be adaptable, curious, and incredibly resourceful. Long after we return home, these quiet, rugged spaces will leave her with a grounded confidence—the kind that comes from knowing she can find her footing, and make a friend, absolutely anywhere.
The Quran beautifully mirrors this journey of discovery, framing travel as a vital spiritual and intellectual pursuit:
“So have they not traveled through the earth and have hearts by which to reason and ears by which to hear?…” — The Quran (22:46)
Moving through the physical world opens our hearts and minds to deeper, universal truths. Today, I am profoundly grateful. I am grateful that I have the health and the means to see the world, but even more so, I am grateful that I was raised with the eyes to see the world in all its beauty and diversity—and to cherish the differences rather than fear them. There is no textbook, no classroom, and no luxury that can teach my daughter this profound truth quite like the open road.
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