From Turbulence to Tacos: How I Became a Reluctant Jetsetter with a Camping Habit

There was a time—honestly, not that long ago—when the idea of flying made me want to puke. Not in a poetic, “overwhelmed by wanderlust” kind of way. No. I mean actual, full-body panic, like I was being strapped to a wing and flung into the sky by a rogue pigeon.

I was not what you’d call “adventurous.” My idea of excitement was crossing the street when the red hand was flashing. But life has a way of kicking you square in the leggings.

It started with something tragic. A very dear friend of mine—vibrant, brilliant, full of life—had a sudden stroke and became physically trapped in her own body. Watching someone you love lose their freedom like that is a gut punch. It changed everything. It made me realize: I was already trapped—in fear. In routines. In Target aisles and meal prep hell.

So I booked a flight.

Correction: I sweated profusely while clicking nervously through a booking website, called my family in a frenzy, and basically forced them to come with me. (If I was going down, we were all going together. Family bonding!)

And then something wild happened… I didn’t die. In fact, I kind of… liked it?

Cue the travel montage: Europe, Peru, Egypt, Jordan, Colombia—we became those people who always had a suitcase half-packed and passports with worn-out corners. We moved fast, like we were in a competition with time. I thought I had everything: stamps in my passport, sun in my hair, and a husband beside me.

But life, being the plot-twister it is, decided to throw in a divorce. A big one. The kind that shakes you like a snow globe and makes you wonder if you should just sell all your possessions and move to a yurt in Joshua Tree.

For a while, I hit pause. I wasn’t sure who I was without the family vacations, the matching luggage, the future I’d planned out to the tiniest detail. But after a period of dramatic sobbing (some of it on the floor, let’s be honest), I did the only thing I knew to do: I got back out there.

Only this time, travel looks a little different.

I’m not racing around the globe. These days, my travel is slower and more intentional. You’re likely to find me lounging on a cruise ship in the Caribbean with my sister, sipping an mojito and wondering if it’s acceptable to eat nachos at 10am. (Answer: Yes. It’s called vacation.)

Or camping—yes, camping—at California State Park beaches. Me. In a tent. With sand in places it shouldn’t be, drinking whiskey under the stars and listening to the meditative crashing of the waves.

Sometimes I whisk myself off for weekend getaways up and down California. I’ve become a big fan of spontaneous road trips: wine tasting in Temecula, hiking in the Central Coast, or just sampling every taco in San Diego under the guise of “research.” (You’re welcome.)

Other times, I travel with girlfriends. We laugh until our mascara runs, split dessert shamelessly, and remind each other that yes, we are still hot, fun, and very much not done with life.

And look—do I still have romantic hopes? Sure. I’d love to meet someone with laugh lines, good playlists, and a strong opinion about the best gas station snacks. But he’ll need a passport and a passion to learn and love patiently, because this woman is not waiting at the gate anymore.

I’ve got room for more stamps in my passport booklet, credit card miles, and a suitcase always ready to be packed.

The world is still calling.

And I am finally answering—with a carry-on, a sense of humor, and the absolute refusal to waste another second being afraid.

Because life is short. The tacos are hot. And the sky is wide open.