There is a special kind of frustration that comes from watching a drama introduce an intelligent woman, ask us to admire her intelligence, and then spend the rest of the series making her behave like she left that intelligence in her work locker.

That was my biggest problem with As You Stood By.

The premise itself was strong. Eun-su and Hui-su are two women pushed to the edge by male violence, class power, and a legal system that offers very little practical protection once abuse happens behind closed doors. Hui-su is trapped in a brutal marriage with Noh Jin-pyo, a wealthy stockbroker from a powerful family. Eun-su, her friend, becomes involved in a plan to kill him.

On paper, this should have been a sharp, suffocating thriller about survival, strategy, domestic abuse, and the limits of justice. It could have been a story about two women trying to outthink a system that was never designed to save them.

Instead, As You Stood By becomes a frustrating mix of melodrama, convenient stupidity, fake-out death sequences, and wasted potential.

Eun-su Was Built Like a Strategist, Then Written Like an Amateur

The most painful character collapse in the series is Eun-su.

The drama does not introduce her as a random ordinary woman who gets swept into a crime. It introduces her as a high-performance sales associate who succeeds because she understands people. She is not merely friendly or hardworking. She is tactical.

She keeps a notebook filled with intimate details about her clients: their dreams, preferences, aspirations, insecurities, habits, and emotional weak points. Then she uses those details in conversation. She drops the right observation at the right time, makes the client feel seen, earns their approval, and sells them high-value products.

That is not a small detail. That tells us something very specific about her mind.

Eun-su knows how to observe. She knows how to read people. She knows how to prepare and how to perform under pressure. She knows how to turn emotional intelligence into a practical result. Her manager praises her as if their entire department’s quota depends on her performance. That is how high the show sings praises of her competence.

She is also a jiujitsu practitioner. Again, this is not random. The show deliberately gives her physical discipline, body awareness, and a skill set connected to control, leverage, timing, and restraint.

Then, after the first two episodes, almost none of that brilliance seeps into the rest of her life.

That is what makes her so painful to watch. It is like watching someone presented as a math wizard at work who suddenly forgets how to use a measuring cup at home. The disconnect is too large to ignore.

A woman who can track a client’s hidden aspirations in order to close a luxury sale should not be this careless in a murder cover-up. A woman trained in jiujitsu should not have that skill treated like decorative character wallpaper. A woman raised in a home where her father beat her mother should have had a more psychologically specific relationship with danger, male violence, vigilance, and control.

That childhood trauma could have explained so much. It could have made Eun-su hyper-alert. It could have made her obsessively prepared. It could have shaped how she helped Hui-su get out of her abusive marriage. It could have connected her past helplessness as a child to her present determination to intervene as an adult.

Instead, the drama barely uses it with any real precision.

Rather than letting Eun-su’s intelligence evolve under pressure, the writers slowly turn her into a more generic heroine: emotional, reckless, defiant, and strangely allergic to good advice. The show seems to confuse female strength with impulsiveness. But ignoring expertise is not bravery. Making obviously bad decisions is not empowerment. Going rogue for the sake of drama does not make a character strong.

It makes the writing weak.

The Jang Kang Passport Plot Was Absurd

One of the clearest examples of this weak writing is Eun-su trusting Jang Kang.

The entire plan depends on a look-alike, and yet Eun-su does not seem to treat this man as the enormous risk that he obviously is. Trusting the success of a murder cover-up to a stranger without a serious background check is already stupid. But then the show takes it further by having him use Jin-pyo’s passport.

How?

Airports use biometric systems now. Incheon International Airport is not a bus terminal where someone can casually flash a passport and hope for the best. The idea that Jang Kang could leave using a dead man’s passport, get through airport security, and then return to Seoul without the show properly addressing biometric verification, immigration records, surveillance, or identity mismatch is ridiculous.

The drama wants the convenience of a high-stakes fake disappearance without doing the hard work of making the logistics believable.

This is a repeated problem. Real-world complications are ignored whenever they would make the plot harder to write.

Jin-pyo is not some anonymous man living off the grid. He is a wealthy stockbroker. He has clients, coworkers, a high-profile family, money, schedules, and social obligations. A meticulous finance professional suddenly “flying to China” should immediately raise questions. His firm should notice. His clients should notice. His family should notice. His digital trail should matter.

But the show creates a strange vacuum around him. The world only becomes suspicious when the writers need it to.

That is not suspense. That is convenience.

Noh Jin-young Should Have Been More Dangerous

This problem is even more obvious with Jin-pyo’s detective sister, Noh Jin-young.

Her position is interesting. She is both a detective and a member of a powerful family with a reputation to protect. On top of that, she is aware of the domestic violence being committed by her brother that she chooses to turn a blind eye to. That should have created a genuinely tense conflict. On one hand, she has professional instincts. On the other, she has family loyalty, class anxiety, and a public image to manage.

But the show does not make her suspicious enough, pushy enough, or dangerous enough.

A detective should immediately sense that something is wrong when a meticulous stockbroker suddenly disappears under vague circumstances. Even if she wants to keep things quiet because of the family’s reputation, that should make her more aggressive privately, not less. She should be quietly cornering people, checking inconsistencies, pulling records, accessing Jin-pyo’s laptops and latest web search histories, watching body language, and applying pressure.

Instead, they set up tense scenes of Jin-young confronting Hui-su but nothing comes out of it. They make her take Jang Kang hostage only to drug him and keep him in her trunk. And that solves what, exactly?

She often feels oddly slow. The show wants her to be a threat, but it does not always write her like one.

That is another missed opportunity. Noh Jin-young could have been terrifying precisely because she had institutional access and personal stakes. She could have represented the system’s double face: the law when it serves the powerful, silence when the victim needs help.

But like many elements in this drama, the idea is stronger than the execution.

The Drama Needed Less Symbolism and More Concrete Attempts to Escape

The series also does not spend enough time showing how the system fails Hui-su.

There is a scene where Hui-su tries to report the abuse, but she panics when she realizes Jin-pyo’s detective sister works there or has connections there. That fear makes sense. If your abuser’s family has ties to the police, reporting becomes terrifying.

But the drama does not do enough with that setup.

For a show supposedly about domestic abuse, it spends surprisingly little time on the repeated, exhausting, practical attempts a victim might make to leave. Survivors often face prolonged barriers: fear of retaliation, lack of support, financial control, institutional dismissal, family pressure, shame, legal complications, and the terrifying reality that leaving can escalate danger. The issue is rarely as simple as one failed police report and then straight to murder.

That is where As You Stood By could have been far more powerful.

Instead of spending so much time on fantasy deaths, symbolic dream sequences, and stylized presentations of the characters’ psyches, the drama could have shown Hui-su trying to escape in concrete ways.

Show her documenting injuries.

Show her trying to hide money.

Show her trying to get someone to notice.

Show her calling someone and hanging up.

Show her attempting to report more than once.

Show a police officer dismissing her because Jin-pyo is respectable.

Show a family member telling her to endure it.

Show Jin-pyo weaponizing his status, money, and connections.

Show Eun-su slowly realizing that every legal route Hui-su tries either collapses or exposes her to more danger.

That would have made the eventual crime feel less like melodramatic escalation and more like the terrible final option of women who had already tried everything else.

The show wants us to believe the system failed Hui-su, but it does not spend enough time dramatizing that failure. It tells us the cage exists, but it should have shown us every bar.

The Murder Itself Was Also Wasted Potential

Even the killing of Jin-pyo feels underwhelming considering how the characters were built.

Eun-su is trained in jiujitsu. Hui-su knows the layout of the house. Jin-pyo is arrogant, violent, and overconfident. The show could have created a tense, carefully planned sequence where the women use preparation, timing, and Jin-pyo’s own assumptions against him.

They could have rigged the house somehow.

They could have poisoned him just enough to lower his inhibitions or slow his reflexes.

They could have used Eun-su’s jiujitsu in a believable way, not as an action-hero fantasy, but as a desperate, disciplined method of survival.

They could have shown a plan that almost works, then fails, then requires improvisation.

Instead, the scene becomes Hui-su screaming and dropping a snow globe on him.

That is not automatically bad. There is a version of that scene that could have worked if the show wanted the killing to feel messy, panicked, and emotionally explosive. But because the series had spent time building Eun-su as sharp, physically capable, and detail-oriented, it feels disappointing that her abilities barely matter.

Why introduce a woman as observant, strategic, and trained in martial arts if the story is not going to let those traits shape the most important act of the plot?

Again, it feels like setup without payoff.

Jin So-baek Was the Only Redeeming Part

The most consistently compelling character is Jin So-baek.

He brings the kind of cool-headedness the rest of the show desperately needed. He understands risk. He understands the underworld. He understands evidence, bodies, leverage, and consequences. He has the street grit that Eun-su and Hui-su lack, but he is not written as cartoonishly invincible. He feels like someone who knows how ugly the world is because he has actually lived close to that ugliness.

That is why I wanted more of him.

Not necessarily more romance. Not more sentimental backstory. But more of his competence. More of his process. More of the practical planning, the criminal logistics. More scenes showing how his mind works under pressure.

The show spends too much time on symbolic fake deaths and not enough time on the mechanics of survival. So-baek could have anchored the thriller side of the series. He could have forced Eun-su to confront the difference between being smart in a corporate setting and being smart in a criminal one.

That would have been fascinating.

Eun-su knows how to manipulate rich clients into buying products. So-baek knows how to survive outside polite society. Put those two forms of intelligence together, and the drama could have had a much richer strategic engine.

Instead, it keeps interrupting its own best material with melodrama.

The Ending Was Not Bad Because It Was Dark

I did not dislike the ending simply because it was sad.

A bleak ending could have worked. Eun-su going to prison and Hui-su psychologically collapsing could have been a brutal but coherent conclusion. The show could have said: this is what happens when the system ignores victims until they break the law, and then suddenly becomes efficient enough to punish them.

That would have been devastating, but honest.

The problem is that the ending tries to have both tragedy and poetic justice. Eun-su is punished. Hui-su is destroyed. But then the show also gives us a convenient car crash and the public downfall of Jin-pyo’s family, as if it wants to reassure the audience that the villains did not fully get away with it.

That compromise weakens the message.

If the show wanted to be honest about power, Jin-pyo’s family should have been able to protect itself. They had money, status, connections, and a reputation worth preserving. In real life, powerful families often do not collapse neatly in public. They manage the scandal. They bury the evidence. They redirect blame. They survive.

That would have been a colder ending, but it would have fit the world the show seemed to be building.

Instead, the finale feels theatrically tragic. Everyone suffers, everyone pays, and somehow the show still does not land a clean message.

So What Was the Message?

This is where As You Stood By becomes most frustrating.

What was it trying to say?

That domestic abuse victims are ignored? Then show more of the ignored reports, failed escape attempts, institutional cowardice, and social complicity.

That desperate women can be driven to desperate acts? Then make the desperation feel cumulative, not merely symbolic.

That murder has consequences? Fine, but that is not exactly a profound statement.

That the system punishes victims once they fight back? That could have been powerful, but the show undermines it by making Eun-su and Hui-su fail through sloppy plotting and inconsistent characterization rather than through a truly intelligent system closing in on them.

The accidental message becomes almost regressive: when women try to take survival into their own hands, they become emotional, reckless, and incompetent.

I do not think that is what the series intended. But because Eun-su is written so inconsistently, that is what it risks communicating.

Her downfall does not feel like the inevitable collapse of a smart woman trapped in an impossible system. It feels like the writers needed her to become stupid so the plot could keep going.

Final Thoughts

As You Stood By had so much potential.

It had a strong premise. It had a morally complicated setup. It had class tension, domestic abuse, female friendship, revenge, trauma, and a character like Eun-su who could have been genuinely fascinating if the writing had honored its own introduction of her.

But the series wasted too much of what it built.

It introduced Eun-su as a high-performance strategist, then made her careless. It introduced her jiujitsu, then barely used it. It introduced her abusive childhood, then failed to integrate it meaningfully into her psychology.

It introduced Noh Jin-young as a detective from a powerful family, then made her less threatening than she should have been.

It introduced domestic abuse as the moral center of the story, then spent too much time on fantasy deaths and symbolic suffering instead of the concrete, exhausting reality of trying to escape.

The only truly redeeming part was Jin So-baek, because he felt like he belonged in the smarter, grittier version of the drama this could have been.

In the end, As You Stood By did not fail because it was too dark.

It failed because it was not smart enough for the story it wanted to tell.

I ask my students this question during our warm-ups in class. While I try not to probe into their personal lives too much, I like to quickly check in on their emotional and mental state, as I believe these can affect their learning. Also, I can’t help it— I’m a nurse.

The majority of my students are also nurses, so we share common ground. I empathize with their stress and physical exhaustion, and most often these warm-ups extend to a mentorship session, when they ask me how to navigate a personal or a professional conflict. And it’s in these mentorship moments that I find nuggets of reassurance and comfort, little North Stars that tell me I’m headed in the right direction.

Today, my student and I talked about our post-shift rituals. Let’s call her Marie. She is a Korean nurse who started studying with me last month. I find her interesting because she learns quickly, asks good questions, and somehow shares the same cynical, dry humor that I do. Some students are pleasant to teach because they are motivated. Some are pleasant because they are polite. Marie is pleasant because the class feels like a conversation between two people who understand the same kind of exhaustion.

Post-shift rituals vary among healthcare professionals, but nurses almost always share the same template: shower, take-out, and TV.

Marie gave a different response, though, when I asked: “So, what do you usually do after your shift?”

She answered very plainly.

“Actually, there are only two things I like doing right now. Your classes and watching TV. I don’t do anything else. I don’t enjoy other activities.”

Her response stayed with me long after the class finished.

It caught me off-guard to be honest. Not in a conceited way, but in a “wha—” kind of way.

On one hand, it sounded bleak. Imagine drawing happiness from crap TV and English lessons. There was something sad about hearing someone reduce her current sources of enjoyment to only two things. Work takes so much from nurses. Energy. Curiosity. Social life. Sometimes even the desire to do anything beyond recovering from the shift.

I know that feeling very well.

On the other hand— and I’m not gonna be a hypocrite— I felt a small, undeniable twinge of joy knowing that my lessons delight her as much as I enjoy teaching them.

And the happiness I felt wasn’t from her admiration of ME, because frankly, I don’t think that’s what she meant. But I’m glad to know that after a long day, she chooses to attend my class, listen and learn communication strategies, and squeeze her brain for English phrases.

I must admit… I felt flattered.

Not in a vain, performative way. Not in the way people feel when they want applause. It was quieter than that.

It felt good to be… chosen.

I felt happy because I also enjoy teaching her.

There are students you teach because it is your job. Then there are students who remind you that teaching can become something more reciprocal than that.

That is still new to me.

For most of my career, I have been used to work that takes.

Nursing trained me to be useful. It trained me to anticipate needs, solve problems, tolerate pressure, absorb frustration, and keep going even when I was tired. Usefulness became the basic expectation. If I did something well, that was simply the job. If I handled something difficult, that was also simply the job.

I kept somebody alive? It’s just the job.

I cleaned up someone’s poop? It’s just the job.

I restarted someone’s heart? It’s just the job.

The reward for being competent was usually more responsibility, not more meaning.

Teaching feels different.

Not always, of course. Not every class is magical. Some lessons are awkward. Some students disappear. Some days I wonder if I am doing enough, if I prepared enough, if I explained something clearly enough. Hell, some days I wonder if I’m even qualified to do this.

But then there are moments like this one.

A student casually says that my class is one of the few things she currently enjoys.

And suddenly, the work gives something back.

That is the part I am still learning how to name and accept.

Maybe this is what reciprocal work feels like. Not easy work. Not effortless work. Not work without preparation, fatigue, or uncertainty. But work where the energy does not only move in one direction.

I prepare. My students show up.

I teach. They engage.

I correct their grammar. They give me glimpses of their lives.

I do not want to exaggerate it. I am not saving anyone. I am not transforming lives in one-hour English lessons.

But I also do not want to minimize it. I’ve been there. For my students, it’s my Medical English class. For me, it’s my Spanish and Italian language lessons.

Small things matter when someone is tired.

A class someone looks forward to matters.

An hour that feels lighter than the rest of the week matters.

A space where a nurse can speak as a whole person, not just as a worker, matters.

Maybe that is why her comment stayed with me.

Because after years of feeling like my work only measured how much of myself I could give away, it is strange to experience work that allows me to be useful without feeling hollow.

Marie probably did not mean to say anything profound. She was just answering a warm-up question.

But I heard it.

There are only two things she enjoys right now.

Watching TV.

And my class.

And for today, that was enough to remind me that maybe I am building something real.

People often assume that major life changes begin with dramatic moments.

A breakup.

A medical emergency.

Getting fired.

A screaming match with a boss.

Some explosive, cinematic event that forces a person to change course.

That wasn’t my story.

The truth is far less exciting.

Before the sabbatical, my life looked good on paper.

I had a stable nursing job in a stable industry. I lived in the United States. I had my own apartment, my own car, and enough disposable income to afford occasional travel and a few luxuries. I had recently become a U.S. citizen, which meant I finally a strong passport that allows me to travel more easily than before.

To many people—especially those back home in the Philippines—I was living the dream.

And that was part of the problem.

Because when your life looks successful from the outside, it becomes much harder to admit that something isn’t working on the inside.

The Cracks Beneath the Surface

Looking back, the earliest warning sign was simple: I was always miserable.

I spent years trying to fix it.

I went to therapy.

I traveled.

I bought nice things.

I studied languages.

I worked out.

I meal planned.

I read books.

I played video games.

Every few months, I would discover a new solution that promised to make life feel lighter. And every few months, it failed. The misery would return.

Learning to Live for the Next Escape

Then there was the travel.

Whenever I came back from a trip, I would sink into a sadness that felt disproportionate to the situation. At first, I dismissed it as post-travel blues. But eventually I noticed the pattern.

Another realization arrived in smaller moments.

I began noticing how little control I had over my own time.

Something as simple as sleeping in was subject to another person’s approval because work started at a certain hour. Taking a trip required negotiation, requests, approvals, and waiting. The older I got, the stranger that felt.

Because what do you mean some dude behind a desk has the power to tell me when I can take a break?

Work isn’t inherently evil. Not all of us are born with a silver spoon and Papa’s trust fund. But I couldn’t ignore the fact that I was spending enormous amounts of energy maintaining a life I didn’t actually want.

Burnout wasn’t a single thing either.

It showed up physically through weight gain, hair loss, alcohol use, pre-diabetes, and hypothyroidism.

Emotionally, it showed up as irritability, depressive episodes, anger, and a persistent inability to enjoy things I used to enjoy.

Socially, it left me with plenty of acquaintances but very few people I felt I could truly lean on.

Mentally, it dulled parts of me I once valued. I used to read voraciously. I used to write more easily. I used to be curious. Now, I must admit, I can’t even start a blog post without some assistance from AI.

The version of myself that existed before nursing felt increasingly distant.

Yet despite all of this, I kept telling myself the same things.

“Everyone is tired.”

“I just need a vacation.”

“I should be grateful.”

“Maybe the answer isn’t to love the job. Maybe I just need to love the money the job provides.”

For a long time, those explanations worked.

Until Ecuador.

Ecuador Changes the Question

What made Ecuador different wasn’t the scenery.

It was the distance.

For the first time in a long time, I was far enough away from my daily routine to look at my life like an outsider.

While I was there, I received an invoice from a recent hospitalization and found myself checking work notifications and emails. Looking at those messages from thousands of miles away, I suddenly saw something I had normalized for years.

My life depended on someone else’s approval.

A manager could decide when I traveled, how long I traveled, and whether I traveled at all.

That realization hit me harder than I expected.

When I returned home, I felt the usual sadness. But this time, there was clarity underneath it.

I remember uploading photos from the trip and looking through older travel albums. What struck me wasn’t where I had gone.

It was how much time existed between those trips.

Months.

Sometimes years.

And I realized something: I didn’t want travel to be an occasional escape from life.

I wanted exploration to be part of life.

I wanted the mountain hike to be part of a weekend.

I wanted wandering through a market to be an ordinary morning.

That was the moment I understood that a vacation wasn’t enough anymore.

Ironically, I didn’t call it a sabbatical. I just knew I couldn’t continue exactly as I was. And I knew that it needed to happen now or it never will.

There Was No Breaking Point

People sometimes ask what the breaking point was.

Honestly, there wasn’t one. Just hundreds of micro-shits accumulating over years.

Work emails.

Management reminders.

Another year passing.

Looking at travel photos.

Watching friends build lives that seemed bigger than the one I was living.

Putting on my scrubs again.

And again.

And again.

From Fantasy to Planning

Eventually, the fantasy became research.

Research became planning.

Planning became action.

At first, I just plugged the best countries for solo female travelers. Then countries in Latin America.

Then digital nomad destinations.

Then cost-of-living calculations.

Then visa requirements.

Then housing.

At some point, I realized I wasn’t daydreaming anymore. I was building a plan.

The first real step was creating a teaching profile on Preply. In 2024, I got my TEFL certificate. At that time, I just wanted a “back-up plan”. Well, I guess I’ve always known in my gut that I will be leaving Nursing in the future. So I took the first step out last November.

And it was stressful.

But also, liberating.

And exciting.

And definitely terrifying. It still is. But now I can see the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel, and that gives me hope.

For the first time, I wasn’t just imagining another life. I was attempting to build one.

Why I Couldn’t Keep Going

If someone asks why I didn’t simply keep going, my answer is straightforward.

I had already lost pieces of my health, my energy, my curiosity, and my sense of wonder.

I wasn’t trying to find a new version of myself.

I was trying to recover the old one. The old me.

The Pamela who laughed more.

The Pamela who dreamed more.

The Pamela who still believed that life was something to experience, not merely endure.

Most people imagine a sabbatical starts at the airport.

Mine started after I came back from Ecuador.

I expected to feel refreshed—like most people usually do after traveling. Instead, I felt something heavier. I would get home, lie in bed, and feel deeply depressed in a way that didn’t pass after a few days. It wasn’t normal sadness. It was the kind where I stopped eating properly, stayed in bed, and wondered if the trip had even happened. I would check my phone just to confirm the photos were real.

At first, I dismissed it as post-travel blues. But it kept happening. Every trip ended the same way.

Then something shifted.

I realized I wasn’t just “sad after traveling.” I was returning to a life that didn’t feel like mine anymore.

Around the same time, I noticed something else. I was cleaning up my social media and saw people who had traveled more than I had. Not wealthy people. Just people living lives that included movement, exploration, change. I had more financial stability than some of them, but less lived experience. I could count my countries on one hand. That gap didn’t feel like coincidence anymore.

That was the first real break in the pattern.

At that point, I was still working full-time as an RN. On paper, it was a stable job that many people would consider ideal. Remote work. Reliable income. Security.

But internally, I was burned out in a way that had been accumulating for 14 years. I was exhausted physically, mentally, and emotionally. I was spending money on takeout and small comforts just to get through the week. I had been in the same profession for over a decade, and it felt less like a career and more like something I had been locked into.

That’s when the idea of a sabbatical stopped being abstract.

The main reason I wanted one was simple: freedom. Or at least a temporary version of it. A way to see what life looks like outside of the structure I had been living in for years.

The moment it moved from idea to plan was not dramatic. It wasn’t a resignation letter or a single turning point. It was smaller than that. It was accumulating frustration, and then “friendly reminders” from work that made it harder to ignore how tightly my time was controlled. It was having to negotiate when I take my time off, always at the mercy of the corporate machine.

When my request for a PTO– submitted 3 months in advance– was denied despite following institutional policies, I snapped.

I’m done asking for permission to live, to be sick. To be human.

From there, the preparation began.

I researched. I read tons of articles and blogs, watched YouTube videos, and joined online forums. I spoke to a therapist to make sure I wasn’t just clinically depressed and crazy. I took verified and studied Values Assessment tests to prove that this is truly what I want and not just a stress response.

On paper, it should have been simple: save money, sell things, pick a destination, book a place to stay.

In reality, it looks like this:

• coordinating with an immigration lawyer for a professional visa

• gathering documents through legal channels in my home country

• slowly purging possessions I no longer use

• liquidating assets to fund the transition

• taking extra shifts to build more runway

• teaching online and trying to turn it into a sustainable income stream

• building curriculum and digital workbooks while working full-time

The most time-consuming part is the teaching and curriculum work. It requires switching between two modes of thinking—nursing and language teaching—and managing both at a high level. But surprisingly, that part is not what drains me most.

The heaviest part is the legal work.

The documents, the immigration coordination, the deadlines, the payments, the uncertainty of whether everything will be accepted. That is the “final boss” layer. It determines whether the entire plan is real or not.

Trust me, I’ve been through this part before. As someone from the Global South, I do not have the privilege of the right accent, the right skin tone, and the right social safety nets that the loudest voices on the internet have. So I am very familiar with and experienced in visa applications and bureaucratic red tape.

And most of that is invisible.

People don’t see the legal coordination, the paperwork, or the slow dismantling of a life built around stability. They don’t see the balancing act between working full-time, building a second income stream, and trying to prepare for departure at the same time.

What they see is the idea of a sabbatical. A privilege. A break. A flight.

But what it actually looks like—at least for me—is something closer to infrastructure building while still living inside the system you are trying to leave.

Before I started this, I thought preparation would mostly be about saving money and getting rid of things.

It turns out it is more about managing systems:
emails, lawyers, bank transfers, timelines, and spending money just to unlock other parts of the process. Even leaving is expensive in ways I didn’t expect.

The biggest constraint right now is not just money or time.

It is the fact that I want teaching to become my full-time work, but it is not strong enough yet to replace my current job. So I am building one system while still dependent on another.

Right now, the most accurate way to describe my state is simple: exhausted, scared, lonely.

What feels most stuck is the exhaustion. Not physical exhaustion alone, but the mental load of constantly calculating trade-offs—sleep, shifts, students, deadlines, and whether any decision will affect the fragile balance I’m trying to maintain.

Most people think a sabbatical is an extended vacation. Something you pause your life for and then return from unchanged.

That is not what this is.

For me, this is not a pause. It is a transition.

A bridge between one version of life and another. Maybe I cross it once and keep moving forward. Maybe I cross it back temporarily to rebuild resources before crossing again somewhere else.

But either way, it is not a return to the same place.

This series is about that process—the reality of trying to build freedom while still inside the life you are trying to leave.

Not the romantic version. The operational one.

The post Sabbatical Diaries #0: Nobody Talks About This Part of a Sabbatical appeared first on Wonderlust.

I had already prepared lesson materials before class, so when she told me she wasn’t in the mood for a proper lesson, I panicked a little. I spent hours meticulously preparing the lesson for today and didn’t anticipate this sudden change.

Personally, I hate wasted preparation. So I quickly pulled up some conversation prompts instead, ready to salvage the hour somehow.

But I barely got to use them.

She immediately started talking about her week. Her parents had visited her in Canada recently, and she spent the lesson telling me about the places they went to, the food they ate, the memories they made together. I mostly listened while occasionally correcting grammar or helping her find the right vocabulary.

Then the conversation shifted.

She told me she was thinking about moving to the United States.

Not because she hated Canada. Actually, the opposite.

She told me she loved her unit. Loved her coworkers. Loved the social benefits. She has a boyfriend there. A life there. Stability. Routine. Familiarity.

But then came the sentence that made me quietly stop in my tracks.

The Question Beneath the Question

“I’m very happy here… but …”

She explained that she finished nursing school at 30 and now, past 35, she feels like time is running out. She wants to build wealth. Buy a house. Buy a car. Have a future family someday.

She said she wishes she could’ve spent more on her parents during their visit. She saw how happy and proud they were of her success, so she wants to have them visit more frequently and dote on them more.

Her friends in the United States tell her the salary is much better there, even if the work is harder. A friend who works in New York tells her how she hates it, while another friend said the money offsets the crap.

Then she asked me:

“What do you think, Pamela? What is your experience?”

And suddenly the lesson stopped feeling like a lesson.

Because I knew exactly what she meant.

I heard myself in her almost immediately. Not just in the practical concerns about money, but in that specific guilt ambitious immigrants carry — the feeling that happiness alone is not enough reason to stay somewhere.

Things were going well for her. That was the tragedy of it.

Because when things are going badly, leaving is easy. But when your life is actually good — when you have people you love, a workplace you enjoy, a rhythm you’ve slowly built for yourself — ambition starts sounding less like opportunity and more like an eviction notice.

I understood her because years ago, I had my own version of that conversation.

What I Lost When I Left

The truth is, I was happy in the UK.

Not perfectly happy, mind you. Some of my coworkers were racist motherfuckers. I was broke. I gave most of my money to my family back home and survived on leftovers. I didn’t have luxury bags, gold jewelry, a car, or my own apartment.

But I had friends.

I had a boyfriend.

The patients were generally nice and understanding.

I had time to enjoy my days off.

I was leaner. Healthier. More curious about life.

I felt more alive there.

More like myself.

And what I lost when I left was my whimsy.

That’s the only word I can use for it.

I lost my ability to dream slowly. To write poems and appreciate art. To watch plays. To marvel at every old church and street.

To imagine a life instead of strategically engineering one. To exist somewhere long enough for it to truly become mine.

To love.

A Weak Yes Is a Strong No

I don’t regret the decision to come to the United States itself. I need to be clear about that. Money matters. Financial security matters. Convenience, safety, stability — these things are not shallow desires. It’s easy to romanticize struggle until you’re eating eggs and rice every day and calling malnutrition “minimalism.”

But I regret the circumstances surrounding my decision.

I did not originally want to move to the United States. My original goal was to become a clinical instructor. I was already studying for my Master’s degree at the time. But slowly, subtly, the decision stopped feeling like mine.

I was told that as the eldest child, the “golden daughter”, that it was my responsibility to lift the family out of poverty. That because I was clothed and fed, that my sole purpose was to pay back the tuition fees, pay off the cars, and send my brothers to school.

That because of familial piety and culture, I don’t get to be a human that has dreams and desires.

And because America paid more, the implication became clear: if I truly loved my family, then this was what I had to do.

People call these “choices,” but I’ve started questioning how much of a choice something really is once guilt enters the equation.

Because consent requires honesty.

Consent requires freedom.

And a weak yes is a strong no.

Leaving Too Early, Staying Too Long

That’s the part I wanted my student to understand, even if I didn’t say it directly during class.

I wasn’t trying to convince her to stay in Canada or move to the United States. I simply wanted her to understand that leaving is an option, not a milestone.

Not everything needs to be a Yes or a No. Sometimes, Wait is also valid decision.

People often misunderstand this.

We treat happiness like a temporary phase instead of something we’re allowed to fully inhabit. We think every good chapter must eventually be sacrificed in the name of growth, optimization, or financial progress.

Sometimes that sacrifice is worth it. Again, financial security is a very real and valid need. If moving to a different country provides you that, then leaving is a wise decision.

But sometimes it isn’t.

I think people deserve informed consent before making life-altering decisions. They deserve honesty about what they gain and what they may quietly lose in the process.

Because leaving a place too early interrupts something.

Your rhythm.

Your relationships.

Your identity.

Your understanding of the people around you and your place among them.

You never fully arrive anywhere because you’re always preparing for the next departure.

But staying too long has its own consequences too.

I learned that the hard way in America.

Because there comes a point where “stability” quietly becomes stagnation. Where a cushy environment starts dulling you instead of nurturing you. Where convenience becomes a cage disguised as comfort.

And that kind of stagnation is dangerous because it happens slowly.

You stop dreaming.

Stop exploring.

Stop imagining alternatives for yourself.

You start convincing yourself that this stagnation is what life is supposed to be.

You survive well enough that nobody questions it — including you.

Until one day you wake up and realize you have spent years enduring a life that no longer fits you simply because it was practical.

I think people romanticize suffering too much, but I also think comfort can make people spiritually sedentary.

Growth requires friction. Not constant chaos. Definitely not poverty nor self-destruction.

But movement.

Curiosity.

Discomfort.

Somewhere along the way, I stayed in the United States long after I already knew something inside me was dying here.

And maybe that’s why this conversation with my student affected me so deeply.

Because I have experienced both mistakes:

Leaving a place too early.

And staying somewhere too long.

The post Leaving Too Early, Staying Too Long appeared first on Wonderlust.

I teach more. I open up my schedule. I take on more students. I build something steady enough to support myself.

But that version requires time.

And time is the one thing I don’t have.

Right now, the job that pays me the most is also the job that takes the most out of me. It’s a sickening loop. It covers my expenses. It keeps everything stable. But it leaves very little room for anything else.

The thing that keeps me alive, is the same thing that kills me.

So I’m stuck in this loop.

The work that could eventually replace my income needs more time and energy.
But the work that currently pays me doesn’t allow for it.

And I can’t just walk away from the higher income—not where I am, not with the cost of living here. That would be irresponsible.

So I prioritize the job that sustains me now.
And in doing that, I limit the thing that could sustain me later.

That’s the tradeoff.

It’s not a lack of discipline. It’s not a lack of effort. It’s just the reality of trying to build something new while still being fully tied to something else.

There are moments where it feels like I’m pushing against something immovable. Like if I could just shift a few more hours, a little more energy, things would start to open up.

But those hours don’t exist. Not yet.

So for now, I work within what I have.

A few classes here. A few openings there. Slow, inconsistent progress that doesn’t look like much from the outside.

Frankly, these days, it doesn’t feel like I’m moving at all. Literally and figuratively. I survive on microwave dinners. The most walking I’ve done was throwing the trash out once a week. And the most “adventure” I’ve had was liquefying pieces that would make the future journey lighter and more secure.

I’d like to think that’s still some kind of progress, but these days, it feels more like… emptiness.

At least it’s still movement, no?

Well, right now, that has to be enough.

The post The Math Doesn’t Lie: Transitioning Careers While Working Full Time appeared first on Wonderlust.

Not John, the retired engineer.
Not Molly, the retired second-grade teacher.

A small bowel obstruction.

Because now, at 70, that’s your life.

Gastroenterologist visits every few weeks.
Nephrologist once a month because your ankles are swollen.
Primary care every six months because your amlodipine got bumped to 10 mg after your blood pressure spiked.

A list of pills long enough that nobody reads it twice.

And two weeks ago, you got diagnosed with a small bowel obstruction.

So that’s what you talk about.

The obstruction.
The constipation.
The laxatives.

You press the call light five minutes after the nurse leaves.
Not because anything changed.
Because you need someone to stand there and listen to the same thing again. With care. With tenderness.

Because you realized– from the very first moment your PCP put you on a mix of antihypertensives– that this is how you get people to listen.

When there’s something wrong. When something hurts.

And you learned soon enough, that they’ll stop coming over once you’re fixed. And the attention stops. The knock on the door quietens.

Until the next diagnosis.

This time, it’s your kidneys. You didn’t really pay attention to the guy– I mean, if it’s not the heart, then it’s the lungs or the kidneys, and you’re tired of it.

Right. Except you’re not. Because now they have to keep you “for a few nights for observation”, you already know the drill–

Dilaudid at your fingertips.

A warm blanket at 2 AM.

“Is there something to eat?” at 11PM. “What?! What do you meant the kitchen is closed?! Not even a turkey sandwich?? What kind of place is this?”

‘I’m not a bad person,’ you tell yourself. ‘I’m just not feeling well and I’m very tired’, you tell your daughter on the phone.

But there’s a sick sense of satisfaction creeping in your chest watching the young nurse scramble for a turkey sandwich.

Or listening to the nurse manager in the white coat trying to find euphemisms to explain how the hospital kitchen operates–desperately avoiding ‘negative’ words in an attempt to appease you and get that much coveted patient satisfaction score.

And if by chance, some smart-ass nurse doesn’t fall for your stories, you call the patient liaison because– why not?

Nobody here takes your small bowel obstruction seriously!

And some guy in a business suit enters your room, nods his head sympathetically as you weave the 30-year story that started with the back pain and now has evolved into a small bowel obstruction and you really “just want to get better, you know?”

They know.

Oh… they know.
Every one knows.
Your daughter in California knows.
Your neighbor knows.
The nurse knows.
You know it.

But nobody says it out loud.

They know– you know– that this is what happens when nothing else is going on.

One thing takes over.
Then it fills the space.
Then it becomes the only thing you have.

It’s about a life that’s been reduced to maintenance.
Appointments.
Medications.
Monitoring.

Surviving, over and over, with nothing else layered on top.

So when the admission nurse asks you, “Have you traveled outside of the country in the past month?”

You begrudgingly shake your head. Because if this damn kidneys just worked, and this damn thing in my stomach just worked, and if I just took a some days off from the office 20 years ago, I would’ve been on that cruise.

You know damn well she wasn’t asking for pleasantries’ sake.

But you don’t care.

Because you know deep down, even if you deny it, that the time to travel has long passed. That ship has sailed, both figuratively and literally. The only thing that takes you one place to another is your motorized scooter.

Or the ambulance, if the couch at home is starting to feel too familiar.

And when they wheel you in the next time, and the doctor peers down his mask to ask you, “Mr. Smith, what is it this time?” without you even having to say your name, you sigh.

“I’ve been having this chest pain since last week….”

.

.

.

Sounds familiar?

Too familiar, if you ask me. Because in my 14 years of clinical experience, I’ve yet to hear a different pattern.

But lately, my life doesn’t look that different.

Work.
Sleep.
Teach.
Repeat.

Same conversations.
Same patterns.

Nothing technically wrong. Just… nothing expanding either.

I’m not sick.

And really, this isn’t about small bowel obstructions or illnesses. This happens to everybody. Remember your coworker with a 3-year old?

What was the last thing she talked to you about? Right, her son painting their kitchen red with a marker.

Or what about your other coworker who got engaged? Right, the night her fiance proposed 11 months ago.

And the secretary? What was that story she told you about her husband’s truck? Right, that they never got the chassis working or whatever so he brought it to a shop and the mechanic charged him a hundred dollars more so he’s gonna take it to the other shop.

I’ve seen how a life turns into one topic.
One loop.
One version of itself that just keeps replaying.

And if you stay long enough, that becomes your whole life.

Not because you chose it.

Because you didn’t stop it.

And I refuse to find out how that story ends.

Not if it means staying in a life stuck in a routine.

So I’m getting the hell out.

The post When One Thing Takes Over appeared first on Wonderlust.

I work night shifts, so my days don’t really feel like days. I work hybrid– in-office/hospital half the time, and at home some days. I save up on gas, but you’re wrong to think I save up on sleep too.

Whether I work onsite or remotely, I’m not always able to sleep properly. Sometimes I get five hours. Sometimes less. I wake up feeling heavy, like my body didn’t fully reset.

Somewhere in between, I teach. I open slots even on work nights. I plan lessons, respond to students, create courses, design my own website, try to stay present. Then there’s everything else– laundry, food, basic things that keep life running.

I used to have the energy to study languages after work. Spanish, Italian, Portuguese. The first to go was Portuguese–my brain just didn’t have enough strength and space to learn the special nasal sounds the language required. Next was Italian– I antagonized my Italian teacher and my apology is not enough to repair a fractured relationship (I’m not putting forth excuses– what I did was inexcusable. I’m merely explaining). In addition, in between admissions, discharges and teaching, my brain couldn’t keep up with the complicated grammar that we were slowly tackling. Last to go was Spanish– it was just impossible to keep awake and it was taking too much brain power to shift from Tagalog — English — Spanish — then back to English for when I engage with my students.

My brain couldn’t keep up anymore.

I liked that version of myself– the one that was always learning something new. Now, I barely have the capacity. And that scares me a little. I don’t want to become another person who says “I sTuDiED sPAnISH in hiGHschOoL so I Can UNdeRStaND… howlah!” and that’s the extent of what they know.

These days, I try to read books to keep my brain power up. Between work and teaching, my interactions with actual people whom I can learn from are very limited. Most days, if I’m not talking to a patient, I’m talking to a student. And frankly, as someone who’s more abstract than human, I feel like my brain is shrinking bit by bit by the lack of intellectual stimulation. So I read. Slowly but surely, I finished re-reading Animal Farm in 2 months. I’m now reading Fahrenheit 451 (Don’t argue with me– Montag is creepy at the very least.)

Despite of the constant exhaustion, I know I’m building something. I have students who trust me. I’m preparing for a sabbatical I’ve wanted for a long time. I’m investing in a life that I am not living yet.

But right now, it doesn’t feel exciting. It just feels… heavy.

Maybe this is just a phase. As Google Gemini and Chatgpt tell me: You are not late, you are building a life where the number of admissions doesn’t dictate your day.

Maybe this is what the in-between is supposed to feel like– not exciting, not fulfilling, just necessary.

(While I get my sanity together, enjoy this photo of the neighbor’s cat that likes to come up my apartment whenever.)

The post What My Days Look Like Right Now appeared first on Wonderlust.

It started with an awakening.

Not the dramatic kind. More like a quiet pause. A slow realization that I had become stagnant — not out of failure, but out of routine. I knew how to be a nurse. I had studied for it, trained for it, survived it. But when I really sat with myself, I wondered: Is that all I know?

Is this what I really, really want?

I remembered a different version of myself. I used to write. I used to teach. I had a social life. I had creative stamina. So when I felt the edges of burnout closing in, writing felt too heavy to pick up again. Friendships were scattered across time zones and conflicting schedules. But teaching? That clicked.

I had done it before, and I enjoyed it. And more importantly, I could do something about it now.

So I enrolled in a TEFL course at the University of Houston. Quietly. Strategically. As a backup plan, if I’m being honest. If things in nursing continued to spiral (and they were), I wanted an exit strategy that wouldn’t feel like a complete leap into the void.

I didn’t expect to love it this much.

Teaching in the In-Between

These days, I still work full-time as a night shift nurse. Which means teaching is squeezed into the small pockets of time between sleep and survival.

It’s hard, I won’t sugarcoat it. My daily routines require military-grade scheduling. Lesson planning replaces gaming. Rest is fragmented. Coffee is constant. But I’ve never once felt depleted after a class.

Why? Because teaching doesn’t take from me the way nursing does.

In nursing, I’m tasked with keeping people alive — even if they treat me like I’m invisible. Or worse, like shit, which is sadly becoming the norm. There are no boundaries, no say in the matter. It’s my job to keep going, no matter how I’m spoken to, no matter how parasitic the system is.

But teaching? Teaching is reciprocal.

When I prepare lessons in Medical English, my students meet me there. They participate. They ask questions. They say thank you — genuinely. Their growth is visible. Their improvement is the return on my investment. It’s a give-and-take, not an extraction.

One of my students wrote:

“I once wanted to keep Pamela as my own secret, but I realized that anyone who genuinely needs clinical English deserves to learn from her. I am deeply grateful to the friend who introduced me to Pamela, and I feel sincere appreciation toward Pamela after every lesson. If I am able to adapt to hospital life and grow as a nurse, it will be because Pamela believed in me and guided me step by step. Her class didn’t just teach English—it supported me when I needed it most. I wholeheartedly recommend Pamela to any nurse who wants to survive, grow, and thrive in a clinical environment.”

I still tear up when I read that. It’s been years since I’ve felt truly appreciated in not just what I do, but for the thought and energy I pour into other people.

When Appreciation Feels Unfamiliar

A few weeks ago, I posted that review on Instagram. I remember feeling proud… and strangely uncomfortable at the same time. The praise felt oversized. Generous. Almost misplaced.

Tonight, it happened again.

During a lesson, I told one of my students that I am merely a resource person. That at the end of the day, she controls her nursing practice. The phrases, frameworks, and communication tools I teach are there to support her, but I won’t be standing beside her in a hospital room telling her what to say.

She paused and said, “Oh, how I wish you were. I would feel better.”

I laughed. I said something practical. But internally, something shifted.

Later, she told me that once she gets her green card and starts working in New York, she and her friend want to visit me in Texas.

And instead of matching her excitement, I froze.

Not because I wasn’t happy.
But because a wave of impostor syndrome hit me so suddenly, I didn’t know where to place it.

I know she’s praising me, and I know she’s thankful for how I helped her improve her English. But somehow, the praise landed differently.

Why do you look up to me like that?
Am I really that good?

RN# 012589 vs Medical English Specialist

In the hospital, I am a function. A role. A license number. An Employee ID#.
In teaching, I’m more than a tentacle in a parasitic system. My Preply profile says I’m a Medical English Specialist, and I have the much-coveted Super Tutor Badge.

In teaching, I am a person whose presence matters

And maybe that’s why opening morning slots didn’t feel like a sacrifice, even on work nights. Even after 12-hour shifts. Even for $8 an hour.

From a business perspective, it probably makes no sense. I mean, why would you sacrifice sleep for 8 dollars an hour when you’re a specialist with 14 years of clinical experience? How is this going to fund the future you’re building?

But when my students asked if I could open more time so they could study with me, my instinct wasn’t resentment.

It was gratitude.

They want to learn with me.

Not because they have to. Not because I’m assigned to them.
But because they believe I can help.

And in those moments, I forget about business. I forget about strategy. I forget that this is technically income toward a future plan.

Because while teaching, I am not calculating. I am not pulled in multiple directions, expected to perform a miracle only Jesus can. I am not asked to do more with the little I was given.

In teaching, I am present.

A Different Kind of Exhaustion

After years of night shifts, I’ve become religious about sleep. It’s sacred. Non-negotiable.

So imagine my surprise when I started willingly shaving off an hour or two just to squeeze in a class after a 12-hour shift. I wouldn’t do that for a meeting. I wouldn’t do it for overtime. But somehow, I’ll do it for teaching.

Not because I’m a martyr. Hell, I could be the most selfish bitch you’ll meet.

But because I’m not resentful.

That’s the difference between something that drains you and something that feeds you — even when you’re tired.

And maybe that’s what this chapter really is.

Not an escape plan. Not a dramatic reinvention. Not even a bridge to something else.

Maybe it’s just me learning how to recognize what feels right. Maybe my nervous system is slowly recognizing that Impostor Syndrome often hits hardest when we step into alignment. Maybe this is the start of the growth that I’ve been desperate for over these past years.

So, when my students ask for more time, I don’t feel burdened. Instead, I feel trusted.

When they say thank you, I don’t feel obligated. I feel seen.

And maybe that’s enough for now.

If I had to describe this chapter in one word?

Rialto.

Like the bridge in Venice. Functional. Necessary. Assolutamente bellissimo.

Not because it leads somewhere grand, but because it holds steady while people cross.

And right now, that feels like exactly who I am becoming.

The post The Rialto Chapter appeared first on Wonderlust.

It was late. The streets were dark. I was tired in that specific, slightly disoriented way that comes from long flights and new continents.

When I arrived, my airport driver graciously coordinated with the hotel staff to make sure I arrived safely. He called the reception, and made sure hotel staff were aware that I would be arriving late. He also walked me to meet said hotel staff to ensure that I wouldn’t be wandering the streets along at night.

When I finally got to the hotel and realized I was starving, the hotel staff didn’t hesitate. They pulled out their personal phones and helped me order food, well past what I’m sure was their official job description. They went above and beyond for someone who literally just arrived.

That kind of care is rare. In the U.S., it’s almost unheard of. Even in Europe, it’s not something you expect. Ecuador welcomed me gently… before it started humbling me.

When Spanish Loads… Slowly

After a gentle start, things went off-script almost immediately.

On my very first tour, I was casually placed into a Spanish-speaking group. To be fair, the tour company did ask if I can speak Spanish. I mean… I do. Just not well enough for a tour.

I guess I bit off more than I can chew. No warning. No buffer. Just vibes.

My brain hadn’t fully switched languages yet, so my Spanish was… loading. Slowly. Buffering. Occasionally crashing. But the tour guide was patient, and I asked questions in my broken, slightly apologetic Spanish. Somehow, it worked.

Here’s video proof that I made friends with fellow travelers despite the language barrier:

Another part of the plan that unraveled involved buses. Specifically: the lack of them.

My travel itinerary was: Quito –Cotopaxi — Banos– Riobamba– Cuenca.

This was my first time doing extended solo travel in Ecuador, and I quickly learned that no itinerary survives reality intact.

From Baños, I was supposed to travel to Cuenca. The bus ride was around eight hours, so I thought I’d be clever and split the trip. I’d stop in Riobamba for a couple of nights, then continue on.

What I failed to account for was a nationwide transport strike.

Why does this always happen when I’m in town? The same thing happened in Portugal. And Italy. And Spain.

I’m starting to think this is a personal curse.

Buses from Riobamba to Cuenca were scarce to nonexistent. So I improvised and decided to head back to Baños, hoping a bigger city would offer better options.

Well, guess who fell asleep and missed her stop?

And that’s how I accidentally ended up in Puyo, deep in the Amazon, instead of Baños.

At 10 a.m., I stood in a bus terminal being told the next bus to Cuenca wouldn’t leave until 8 p.m. Solo travel confidence is great until logistics and safety start having a very loud conversation in your head.

I seriously considered the odds. Here I am, 5 feet and 2 inches, with barely passable Spanish, about to travel on a night bus. My nurse brain wanted safety, but my traveler brain wanted adventure.

So I did what any rational adult would do: I called my Italian teacher, Mirko, who happened to be in Quito.

His advice was simple: You wanna be safe? Come here to Quito.

That detour turned into almost a week in the capital. I missed Cuenca entirely, but I gained something else — time with a friend, new travelers, unexpected conversations, and the reminder that detours aren’t always losses.

Hitchhiking, Cows, and Other Excellent Decisions

Ecuador also reminded me that my misadventures are not always logistical. Sometimes, they’re… agricultural.

In Urbina, I milked a cow.

Midway through the experience, the cow decided to do what cows do. Poop.

The experience was unforgettable.

Then there was Cotopaxi.

I wanted to hike around Lake Limpiopungo. The driver kindly offered to drop me off at the lake and told me to hike back to the tourist center when I was done. I thought the walk would be easy.

It was — until it wasn’t.

By the time I finished hiking around the lake, I was tired, hungry, and staring at a very long walk back. I ate my emergency banana and had a quiet moment of reckoning.

Surprisingly, I wasn’t afraid of other humans. I was more afraid of the elements. I weighed my options carefully…

And after three cars passed me by, I decided to hitchhike.

Thankfully, an English-speaking couple stopped and gave me a ride back to the tourist center, restoring my faith in humanity and my blood sugar levels.

Yes. I’m safe. I wouldn’t be able to write this blog post if I had been left to die in the Andes.

Horses, Time, and Learning to Let Go

If Ecuador gave me chaos, it also gave me calm. And it came on horseback.

Time slowed every time I rode.

In Baños, Riobamba, and Cotopaxi, horseback riding became my favorite way to move through the landscape. At first, I tried to control everything. I pulled at the reins near puddles. I worried about hills. I micromanaged.

Eventually, I realized the horses knew better than I did.

They knew when to slow down, when to gallop, how deep the water was, and how to avoid it. All I had to do was trust.

That surprised me: how much I enjoyed it, how grounding it felt, how connected I felt to another living being and the land at the same time.

I wish I had spent more time riding. More time letting the world pass by at a pace that made sense.

What Ecuador Quietly Taught Me

Ecuador taught me honesty.

Not the dramatic kind, but the quiet, necessary kind.

I learned to be honest about what I can and cannot do. I’m not elderly, but I’m not at peak health either. I learned to listen to my body. To stop forcing myself into experiences just because other travelers could do them effortlessly.

No matter how many blogs I read or vlogs I watch, my travel experience will always be mine. Discomfort, limits, and adjustments are part of the deal, and embracing them is part of growing.

Meeting other travelers also stirred something uncomfortable and undeniable.

They felt free.

Sure, I don’t know their whole stories, but in my conversations, I realized how much of my life was dictated by schedules that weren’t mine. By approval I had to ask for. By systems that decided when and how I could live.

Ecuador didn’t introduce that thought — it made me accept it. Finally.

When Thoughts Become Plans

Before Ecuador, I lived with a lot of thoughts.

After Ecuador, those thoughts became plans.

The question “If not now, then when?” stopped being rhetorical. It became a principle.

I didn’t need a grand moment to realize this. The images that linger with me are simple: walking through a city looking for a local restaurant, ordering food, wandering without urgency. Imagining a future where life feels lived instead of scheduled.

All my travel lessons, misadventures, reflections, and questions seemed to converge in Ecuador. It gave me direction without shouting. Purpose without pressure.

And maybe that’s what made it so powerful.

Sometimes, the biggest changes don’t come from perfectly executed plans — they come from getting lost, missing buses, trusting horses, and realizing that life is far too short to keep waiting for the “right” time.

Solo travel in Ecuador reminded me that you don’t always need a plan — just the willingness to pivot, trust, and pay attention.

I don’t know when the next misadventure begins, but I do know this: it’ll come with more intention, more stillness, and probably another horse.

Snapshots of My Ecuador Adventure

Quito and Cotopaxi

Banos and Puyo

Riobamba and Urbina

Quilotoa

The post Chronicles of (Mis)adventures in Ecuador: When Plans Detour and Clarity Finds You appeared first on Wonderlust.

There’s been a lot of talk online lately about adult friendships: how hard they are to maintain, how busy everyone is, how “life just happens.”

Just take a look at r/FriendshipAdvice or r/Adulting on Reddit. I’d say 80% of the posts in those communities are about maintaining adult friendships.

The most common sentiments floating around social media include:

• The “I’m too busy” defense. Case in point, this Reddit comment: “I would love a friend, but between keeping my marriage healthy with my husband and raising 2 under 5 I honestly do not have time for anymore relationships. I came to this realization about a week ago.”

• The self-care > everything movement, exemplified by a content creator who said, and I quote: “…maybe they’re just prioritizing rest, peace or their boundaries, which is fine.” (I translated this from Filipino to English for my non-Filipino readers.)

• The belief that adult friendships naturally fade or require less effort. Some people assume that as you grow up, your preferences change, so you just “grow apart.”

People are defending their right to prioritize family, careers, and self-care — and they’re not wrong.

But here’s the thing: when friendships consistently land at the bottom of your priority list, they stop being friendships. They become placeholders. Background noise. Emotional storage lockers you plan to open again someday when you finally have time. And that’s not what friendship is supposed to be.

I understand all of this. I really do. Life gets overwhelming. Priorities shift. No one can show up at full capacity all the time.

But at some point, “busy” stops being a circumstance and becomes a choice. Because friendship, like any other relationship, requires maintenance. And when it’s repeatedly deprioritized, that message lands — whether we intend it to or not.

Friendship Requires Maintenance

Why is friendship always the first to go?

Friendship, like any meaningful relationship, does not run on autopilot. It needs checking in, follow-through, and mutual effort.

We don’t expect marriages to thrive without communication. We don’t expect careers to flourish without showing up. Yet somehow, friendship is treated as optional — something we’ll return to once life settles down.

Friendship is not a lesser relationship. It’s not a placeholder until romance arrives, children are born, or careers stabilize. And yet that’s exactly how it’s treated in adulthood: optional, flexible, endlessly forgiving.

We don’t apply this logic elsewhere. We don’t tell our partners, “I’ll check back in after I give birth.” We show up to work tired or even sick, because we know constant absence leads to consequences. We don’t excuse emotional distance in family relationships by calling it self-care — we still reach out to the son who’s acting out, or the daughter who’s withdrawn.

But when it comes to friendship, neglect is often reframed as inevitability. Suddenly it’s called “growing up” or “setting boundaries.”

Why is friendship always the first to go?

Reciprocity & Responsibility

Friendship, like any enduring connection, requires maintenance. Not constant availability. Not daily communication. But intentional effort, mutual responsiveness, and the willingness to show up even when the timing isn’t ideal.

When someone says, “My priority right now is my partner, my child, my job, myself,” what they are also saying — whether they mean to or not — is that friendship ranks lower. That it can wait. That it isn’t urgent or essential.

And while people have every right to choose their priorities, friends also have every right to believe the message they’re being sent. And to feel hurt by it.

Because relationships are built not on intention, but on behavior.

You cannot claim closeness while offering distance. You can’t ask for understanding while offering silence. You can’t keep withdrawing and expect the other person to keep giving. That’s not friendship. That’s emotional convenience.

Sometimes, friendship asks more of us than convenience. Sometimes it asks us to show up tired, overwhelmed, grieving, or stretched thin. Not because we are obligated, but because that is the cost of having a village that doesn’t disappear when things get hard.

Community isn’t built in ideal conditions. It’s built in the middle of ordinary, messy life.

To treat friendship as less than other relationships is to misunderstand its value. Many of us survive adulthood because of our friendships — because someone checks in, remembers us, makes time, and chooses us again and again.

That kind of connection doesn’t happen by accident. It happens because both people decide it matters.

“But Life Is Just So Busy…”

I can already hear the rebuttals:

“But I have kids.”
“But I’m barely surviving.”
“But I’m going through something.”
“But I don’t have the bandwidth.”

All valid. I believe you. Life is heavy. There are seasons when showing up for anyone else feels impossible.

And listen — I’ve been on both sides. I’ve been the unavailable one: sending “maybe next time” messages, letting texts sit on “seen” for days. I’ve also been the one whose invitations go unanswered, whose voice notes go unheard, the one who waits.

What I’ve learned is that while unavailability might start as necessity, it often turns into a pattern. At some point, it becomes a choice. We start choosing to be unavailable to our friends.

That internet quote says it best: “What you allow, you choose.”

So what happens? We coast through life, choosing everything else over friendship, and then one day we wake up lonely, wondering: “We used to be so close. What happened?”

Here’s what happened: you chose this.

Here’s the nuance: acknowledging your own limits doesn’t erase the impact of your absence. Both can be true. You can be stretched thin and still unintentionally hurt someone who kept reaching out. You can love someone and neglect the relationship until it no longer feels mutual. You can have good reasons — and still cause real harm.

The problem isn’t the hard season. It’s using the hard season to justify indefinite silence.

If a friend says, “I’ve been feeling distant from you,” and your first response is “I’ve just been busy,” you’re asking that friend to understand your life — without offering understanding in return.

Relationships work two ways. If you want grace, you have to offer repair. If you want the friendship to survive, you have to let people in — even just a little. Even a simple “I don’t have capacity right now, but I still care” can be enough.

That one sentence can be the difference between a friendship that grows through the hard parts, and one that quietly dies from neglect.

It’s okay not to have capacity in the moment. But the question remains:

When will you?

No one is asking for constant attention or unrealistic energy. But friendship requires awareness. If you can’t meet up, can you send a voice note? If you’re overwhelmed, can you at least acknowledge the message? Can you show up in small ways that still say, “I haven’t forgotten you”?

Because while we all need space, what we also need — desperately — is each other.

Choosing Friendship

Sometimes, sustaining a friendship means choosing it — even when it’s inconvenient. Even when you’re tired. Even when you’re busy.

Adulthood pulls people in a dozen directions: jobs, children, partners, errands, rest, religion, family events. Every hour gets claimed. All of that matters.

But would it really be so much to skip one gathering with people you see every week? Would it be so terrible to miss one Sunday service to make space for someone who’s been waiting — patiently — to feel like they still matter to you?

I’m sure Jesus won’t send you to hell for rescheduling once.

You cannot build a lasting friendship on leftover time. You cannot claim to value someone you never make space for.

And honestly — would you be happy eating someone’s leftovers? So why should your friend be satisfied with the leftovers of your time?

When every other part of life gets prioritized, and friendship is always the thing that can wait, the message being sent is clear:

“This relationship doesn’t matter enough.”

Maybe you think your friend understands. Maybe you believe they’ll always be there when things settle down.

But here’s the truth: no one waits forever. Even the most understanding people eventually stop reaching out when they realize they’ve become optional.

Adult Friendship Is a Choice

The idea of “adulting” shouldn’t mean we lose our capacity for care and connection. If we want true community, we can’t ghost each other in our busiest or hardest moments.

Friendship doesn’t fall apart because people get busy. It falls apart because people decide — consciously or not — that it can wait. That it’s optional. That it will still be there later.

But relationships don’t survive on good intentions alone. They survive on effort, reciprocity, and the quiet decision to keep showing up.

And when friendship is consistently treated as expendable — something to return to when life calms down — it eventually stops waiting.

Not with a confrontation.
Not with anger.
Just with distance.

That’s how most friendships end in adulthood. Not because of conflict, but because one person kept choosing, and the other kept postponing.

How about you? Have you lost a friend this way?

The post What Adult Friendship Demands: On Reciprocity, Adult Priorities, and Choosing to Show Up appeared first on Wonderlust.

This year, I chose to travel in Portugal, a country that had been sitting patiently on my list for years. After Spain and Italy, it felt like the natural next step: another language to learn, another culture to experience, and another chance to try traveling smarter.

Spoiler alert: I didn’t. But I did travel differently—and that made all the difference.

Preparing for Portugal: The Illusion of Readiness

If you’ve read my earlier posts in the (mis)adventures series, you know I never show up to a new country without trying to learn the local language. So of course, I studied Portuguese.

I’ll be honest: it was a beast. Similar words to Spanish and Italian, sure—but the pronunciation? Much closer to French. It’s more nasal, and I even had to borrow pronunciation techniques from my native Tagalog just to get the sounds right. Still, by the time I arrived, I wasn’t fluent. I could understand directions, read train delay notices, and order a coffee or a pastel de nata—but conversation? Not quite there. (Seafood lasagna, however, was successfully acquired. Sorry to my Italian teacher’s ancestors. Haha!)

Outside the language barrier, I made some classic mistakes: fashion misfires, overpacking optimism, and trusting that my gastritis wouldn’t act up in a country where I barely spoke the language and had zero knowledge of the healthcare system.

How does that saying go again? An ounce of prevention is… bullcrap?

Because preparation doesn’t always prevent (mis)adventures.

So come along, dear wonderers, for my (mis)adventures in beautiful Portugal!

(Mis)Adventure #1: Packing With Hope Instead of Logic

Packing is its own art form. What you pack for a city differs wildly from what you’d bring to the coast. I know this. I still got it wrong.

Europeans dress better than Americans—fact. In the U.S., pajamas at the grocery store? Totally fine. But in Portugal? I wanted to step it up.

Did I nail the perfect wardrobe? Nope.
Did I pack clothes I never wore and donated at the hostel? Yup.
Did I buy a few pieces there and wear them more than my original outfits? Absolutely.

Packing remains an ongoing lesson, and I’m realizing my personal style is evolving. I used to love dresses; now I reach more for comfy sweaters and cotton pants.

I used to stress about looking like a tourist. But you know what? I am a tourist. Locals can tell, no matter what I wear. And that’s not a bad thing. What matters more is being respectful of local customs and laws.

And being ready for sudden downpours. It rained hard in the morning when I went to Sintra. Good thing I bought a light, waterproof jacket with a hood that saved me from being drenched!

Lesson learned: Packing is still a work in progress—and that’s okay.

(Mis)Adventure #2: Semi-Wrong Footwear—Once Again

At this point in my traveler journey, I know the value of good shoes. I thought I was ready for Portugal’s cobblestones and tiled streets. I was not.

I had read all about the slippery tiles and steep slopes. I packed my trusty Converse, confident they’d have enough traction.

Then it rained.

One morning in Lisbon, a drizzle turned the sidewalks into slip-and-slides. I had to walk like a cartoon character avoiding banana peels just to stay upright. Thankfully, the sun came out and dried the streets before noon.

To this day, I don’t understand how the locals do it. Some wore the same Chucks I did—and yet, no problem. Do they come with secret cleats?

Will I wear my Converse again in Portugal? Yes. I have them in different colors. But next time, I’ll bring a pair with extra grip.

Lesson learned: Comfort over style, always. And if you still get it wrong? That’s okay. It’s a science of its own.

(Mis)Adventure #3: Trains, Again—A European Classic

Ah, European trains. Beautiful. Scenic. Unpredictable.

What’s a trip without a nationwide transport strike?

Just like in Spain and Italy, I had a train adventure in Portugal too. I planned a day trip to Guimarães, only to find out—surprise!—trains were canceled due to a transport workers’ strike. While I support the cause, it definitely threw off my schedule.

Did I check timetables? Of course.
Did I check the local news? Nope.

It ended up being a blessing in disguise. That same day, my gastritis flared up. If I had gone, I probably wouldn’t have enjoyed a minute of it.

Lesson learned: Always check transport updates, even if you think you know better.

(Mis)Adventure #4: Not Taking Up Hiking as a Hobby

Portugal, like Cusco and Cuenca, is a hilly country. And with my sea-lion-level fitness, I struggled.

Every walk felt like a hike. My lungs were constantly challenged. But hey, maybe that’s why I always lose weight on vacation—breathing alone is a workout!

The silver lining? Pastries. So many glorious pastries! While pastel de nata stole my heart, I also loved pão de deus, ovos moles de Aveiro, queijada, and travesseiro.

Also: the seafood. Oh. My. Lord. Grilled sardines, steamed shrimp, langoustine drenched in garlic butter, seafood lasagna… I could go on. Portugal is a seafood lover’s paradise.

And don’t get me started on Francesinha– it ruined burgers for me forever!

Lesson learned: Be gracious in your defeat against hills. Your reward? Heavenly food.

(Mis)Adventure #5: The Trip That Was Too Short

I made the mistake of thinking 12 days would be enough for Portugal. It wasn’t.

I had just 2.5 weeks to split between the UK and Portugal, and I regret not giving Portugal more time. Between the food, the history, the art—I barely scratched the surface.

I constantly had to choose: Should I visit this city or stay here another day? The limited time created a subtle stress, and even small delays annoyed me more than usual.

And when my trip was coming to an end, there was the lingering feeling of “unfinished business”, the bitter sting of having to face reality too soon.

Still, I made the most of it. I visited Porto and Lisbon, took day trips to Sintra and Fatima, and soaked in as much architecture, art, and culture as I could. I tried to speak with locals, snapped all the photos, and yes, even bought medicine in Portuguese when my gastritis hit.

Lesson learned: Some places deserve more than a stopover.

(Mis)Adventure #6: Learning Portuguese Beyond Survival

Despite having just a month to study, learning Portuguese before my trip turned out to be one of the most rewarding decisions I made.

I can’t forget the look of relief from one of the waitresses in a local cafe when I put my order in Portuguese, and even managed to ask if they do non-dairy milk.

Another proud moment was navigating the pharmacy. In Porto, my gastritis struck. Unfortunately, the medication brands I’m familiar with are unavailable in Portugal, so I had to resort to my very basic Portuguese to buy the correct one. Fortunately, the pharmacist was patient enough, and we even had a short chat.

From ordering coffee with non-dairy milk to chatting with a pharmacist about medication, my limited vocabulary went a long way. I even managed laundry and a little haggling!

Knowing the language—even imperfectly—made everything richer. I got to glimpse local life beyond the tourist lens.

And I’ll say it again: learning a language opens doors. Always.

Lesson learned: Language changes the way you experience a place.

A Place I’ll Return To

I’ve already spoken it into existence: I’ll return to Portugal.

My trip was short. Some of my plans were flawed. But every (mis)adventure was part of something bigger. Growth. Curiosity. Continuity.

Is there such a thing as a perfect trip? Probably not. But I’m learning more about myself—and the world—every time I travel. Some places plant seeds in your soul.

Portugal is one of those places. It’s not a conclusion. It’s a promise.

Snapshots of My Trip To Portugal

The post Chronicles of (Mis)adventures in Portugal: Slips, Lessons, and a Lot of Seafood appeared first on Wonderlust.

Belonging is one of those things everyone assumes you eventually figure out — like taxes or how to fold a fitted sheet. But for some of us, belonging is slippery. It changes shape depending on where we stand. When I returned to the UK, a place that once felt like the beginning of my adult life, I found myself asking the same questions I’ve asked for years: Where do I belong? Do I belong anywhere?

Some days I feel like I’m piecing myself together from all the places I’ve lived — a patchwork of accents, habits, and memories that don’t always make sense together.

After years of wandering (and wondering), I realized that belonging isn’t always tied to geography.

Sometimes it’s tied to memory, identity, or the person we once were.

The Immigrant’s Split Identity

There’s a strange loneliness that comes with being an immigrant– a feeling that you exist in two worlds but fully belong to neither.

I’ve always had a hint of identity crisis, even before I knew what to call it. Growing up in the Philippines, I didn’t fully fit in. I openly rejected certain traditional beliefs. I advocated for reproductive rights in a deeply Catholic environment. I criticized the manipulative “breadwinner” culture disguised as familial devotion. And I became agnostic after college (much to the horror of my more religious friends).

When I moved to the UK, I thought assimilation would be easy. I spoke English fluently (though my accent became a constant point of curiosity). I learned to love tea and tolerate beans-for-breakfast. I adapted to British work culture — even if I silently questioned why a 12-hour shift needed two tea breaks, a breakfast break, and lunch, and a smoke break.

Then I moved to America. I adapted again — this time to their hustle culture, which promptly led me to early burnout. I learned to drive, changed my accent, picked up their slang, celebrated their holidays.

But beneath all these surface-level adaptations were deeper wounds.

Racism, for one. I still haven’t forgiven myself for staying silent during moments of microaggressions from colleagues abroad or even from patients here in the States. I remind myself I was young and it was my first time stepping outside the safety of Filipino society, but a part of me still wishes I had been braver.

Another shift happened quietly: my mindset changed. Beliefs I once lived by no longer fit. The Filipino cultural value of meekness in the name of camaraderie, I now disdain. I’ve become bolder, more assertive– even blunt when needed– and I found it liberating. Choosing myself — considered selfish back home — is praised here.

So now I float between worlds.

In the Philippines, I often felt “too Western,” shaped by the independence and mindset I gained abroad. But outside the Philippines, I’m unmistakably Filipino — in my values, my humor, my softness, my way of navigating the world.

It’s a tension that’s hard to explain: you adapt so well that you lose pieces of home, yet you still carry enough of home that you never fully blend in.

That’s the cost of assimilation: language shifts, accent shifts, habits changing.

Even though I still speak Tagalog fluently, I sometimes struggle to express my deepest thoughts in it. Some ideas come out more naturally in English — sometimes even in Italian or Spanish.

I’ve changed so much that I don’t fit the place I came from, and yet I’m still “othered” in the places I move to.

The Quiet Loneliness of Being In-between

Finding genuine relationships becomes difficult when you live in cultural limbo. It’s like trying to sift instant coffee — impossible to separate what dissolves together.

Or like being stuck in a Venn diagram:

One circle overlaps with immigrants who share your cultural roots. Another overlaps with locals who share your newly wired brain. But you never fully belong in either, because you’re too much of this and not enough of that.

Years after leaving Manila, I realized I don’t have a single “home”, only versions of it.

Manila is no longer the Manila I grew up in. I don’t understand the local culture anymore.

My UK friendships have evolved without me; re-entering feels like trespassing.

And the U.S. feels more like an office — functional, practical, and emotionally sterile.

Eventually, belonging becomes something internal rather than external.

The Immigrant’s Truth: Belonging Is an Inside Job

There comes a point in the immigrant journey when you understand that belonging isn’t tied to a flag, a language, or a postal code. It’s tied to who you’re becoming.

I don’t fully belong to the Philippines anymore, but I don’t fully belong anywhere else either.

It feels bleak sometimes, like living in a constant kind of purgatory.

And yet, in this in-between space, I’ve also found freedom.

I learned not to conform to any singular culture’s expectations– after all, I’m not enough of this and I’m too much of that. I can be whoever I want in any given moment, a cultural chameleon, if you may.

Being “too Filipino for the West and too Western for Filipinos” stops feeling like a flaw and starts feeling like a quiet kind of power—proof that I carry multiple worlds inside me, and I don’t have to choose just one. I belong not to the past I left behind, nor to the expectations others place on me, but to the person that I am still growing into.

Returning to the UK: A Mirror, Not a Home

Returning to the UK felt like walking into an old photograph — familiar outlines, familiar colors, but with a version of myself missing from the frame.

London’s trains, the accents, the cold air outside Heathrow… all of it tugged at memories I didn’t realize I still held. But as I wandered through Eastbourne, passing by old haunts and seeing familiar sights that didn’t feel familiar anymore, I felt the sting of distance.

Friends had moved forward — marriages, babies, new careers — and I wasn’t part of those chapters anymore.

It’s hard not to feel marooned. Here I was, planning solo trips because my friends live oceans away, celebrating milestones alone, building a life that no longer mirrors anyone else’s.

I realize the ache wasn’t about the place changing. It was more about me changing. While the places and the people changed, the truth is that I didn’t lose that home. I simply outgrew the version of myself who lived there.

The Inner Work of Starting Over

Starting over isn’t a single moment—it’s a lifelong unraveling and reweaving of who you are.

Every place I’ve lived left its fingerprints on me: the Philippines shaped my roots, the UK nudged me into adulthood, Houston taught me survival, and my travels taught me courage.

Reinvention stops being dramatic and becomes something quiet, subtle, continuous. And along the way, I realize that identity isn’t linear. It’s layered, contradictory, sometimes fragmented, sometimes whole.

Belonging stops being about choosing one place and instead becomes about making room for them all: every city, every version of myself, coexisting in the same heart.

I can belong anywhere, everywhere, and nowhere, as long as I remain true to myself.

The post On Belonging and Starting Over appeared first on Wonderlust.

Back then, I was naive—unsure, overwhelmed, impressionable. I was figuring out relationships, my career, and who I wanted to become. I was just starting to fall in love with travel.

Now, years later, I’m more confident, more grounded, and definitely more experienced. (Though still capable of questionable travel decisions.) That young woman who arrived wide-eyed at Heathrow eight years ago has grown—and hopefully, for the better.

With that said, I’ve always had a longing to return to the UK. My stay there was short, and since leaving, I’ve always wondered, “What if I stayed longer? What if I stood my ground ?”

These questions lingered for years, so returning felt necessary—a way to seek closure, to see if I still belonged in the place where I first learned how to start over.

The UK was not just another country on the map. To me, it was the first version of home I built from scratch. Returning made me wonder whether that home still existed, or whether I had outgrown it long ago.

First Impressions: Familiar Yet Foreign

Stepping off the plane in Heathrow felt like stepping into a memory. The cold air was the same. The accents were comforting. Even the black-and-white taxis felt like old friends.

But then I looked around.

The long immigration lines still existed, but the stern officers had been replaced by futuristic facial-recognition gates. The terminal felt familiar but different—like returning to your childhood home only to realize someone changed the curtains.

I arrived at my hostel with hours to spare before check in, so I went straight to exploring London. Surprisingly, my insider knowledge was still intact. I recognized the general directions of the trains, and I remembered to walk on the opposite side of the road. I thought to myself, “I still got it!”

But my confidence quickly faded when I missed the stops. I’ve forgotten to change trains, and the correct exits. I realized that while many things remain the same, so much more had changed.

That’s when it hit me: Belonging is remembering who you were and realizing you’re not that person anymore.

(Mis)Adventure #1 – Navigating a Life You No Longer Live

One of the first things I did was visit places I never got to see as a resident. When I lived in the UK, Big Ben was covered in scaffolding. Now, it finally stood in its full glory—majestic, gleaming, and surprisingly emotional to see.

Fortunately, time and weather was on my side when I visited. It felt surreal to be seeing the same sights, and yet experiencing it the way I am now.

Back then, I walked along the Thames with someone.
Now, I walked alone—but peaceful, content, and secure in myself.

Back then, I chased validation. Now, I just enjoyed the view.

Next. I reached out to old friends and coworkers. I used to live and work in a town called Eastbourne, an hour and a half south of London. It’s a sunny little place, quiet and relatively peaceful. I wanted to see old friends and reconnect. They occupy a special place in my heart, after all.

However, they weren’t available– and understandably so. They lead busy lives, and my arrival was smack in the middle of a work week. Sadly, none of my Eastbourne friends and acquaintances were able to meet me for lunch. I’ll admit, I felt sad and disappointed. But I also understand. Like I said, they were busy.

Still, I went.

I ate at the old restaurant where an ex once took me on dates. I wandered the pier I used to haunt on my days off. I visited the mall that used to be half-dead but was now thriving.

The old charm of Eastbourne, the way I remember it, was still there, but I felt out of place while I walked along its rocky shore. It felt familiar and yet different. And I realized that it wasn’t just Eastbourne that changed. It was me.

That morning, as I strolled down familiar paths and watched the waves and the people around me, I realized that I can return to a place, but not the version of myself who lived there.

(Mis)Adventure #2 – Old Friends, New Me

As mentioned earlier, most old friends were busy. But I did get to meet one dear friend—Pao—and our reunion was the emotional highlight of my England trip.

The last time I saw her was seven years ago, and yet our conversation felt seamless. She was now married with a little girl. We were both nurses, now working in different corners of the healthcare world. She lost weight, I gained some (balance in the universe, I suppose).

But as we talked, I realized something: Everyone I once knew in the UK has moved on to the next chapters of their lives.

I’m happy for them, but I also feel slightly out of sync. Because while they worry about building a new life with their partners and children, or achieving new accolades at work or getting new degrees, here I am: collecting languages, climbing mountains, riding horses in South America, and writing about my mistakes on the internet.

It made me wonder if I had “fallen behind”. Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t… I don’t know. One thing is for sure: my path is different.

As I rode the train back to my hotel, I realized that there’s no limit to how many times you can reinvent yourself. Starting over is not a one-time event. It’s an ongoing practice.

(Mis)Adventure #3: Wicked, the West End, and the Life I Forgot I Loved

One thing I knew I had to do in London was watch Wicked at the West End.

The moment the orchestra swelled and the curtain lifted, something inside me stirred—something I hadn’t felt in a very long time. I used to love watching plays, musicals, concerts… anything that fed the creative parts of me.

But life in Houston hasn’t given me much space for that.

Between car payments, insurance, long shifts, and the daily grind, I somehow forgot what it felt like to sit in a theater and let art move me. I forgot what it meant to be inspired.

And somewhere between “Defying Gravity” and the final bow, I realized: I miss this version of myself—the one who enjoyed stories, who supported the arts, who wrote passionately and fearlessly.

It made me want to write again. To be creative again. To give myself permission to love art the way I used to.

Because life was simpler back then. Not easier in an emotional sense, but simpler: no car, no insurance drama, no constant adulting. Just buses, Oyster cards, and the occasional Primark splurges.

Watching Wicked reminded me that even if I can’t bring that old life back, I can bring pieces of that old me forward.

(Mis)Adventure #4 – The Tourist Who Used to Be a Local

It’s a special kind of humbling to get lost in a city you once knew intimately.

I walked into old neighborhoods, half expecting nostalgia to punch me in the face. But instead, I felt… neutral. Not sad, not happy, just aware that things had changed.

I was no longer a local, but I wasn’t a full tourist either. Instead, I was something in between: a visitor with a history.

And maybe that’s its own kind of belonging.

Scotland: Where Belonging Felt Quiet Again

If London made me reflect, Scotland made me breathe.

The moment I arrived, the energy shifted. Edinburgh felt peaceful—green, lush, moody, dramatic, ancient. A place that welcomes you without demanding anything in return.

There were moments in Scotland where I genuinely wondered: What would it be like to live here?

(Mis)Adventure #5 : Rosslyn Chapel, Royal Hearts, and My Knees Betraying Me

I joined a small tour group visiting Rosslyn Chapel—yes, the chapel from The Da Vinci Code. In real life, it’s even more beautiful: intricate stonework, mysterious carvings, and an atmosphere so serene it almost feels sacred.

Next stop: the site where Robert the Bruce’s heart was buried. A little strange, a little poetic, very Scottish.

Then came Hadrian’s Wall.

A “short hike,” they said.
“Easy walk,” they said.

My lungs: You sure about that?

I was breathless—again—but the sweeping countryside made every huff worth it. Endless fields. Rolling hills. Sheep living their best lives.

Unlike London, Scotland didn’t remind me of who I used to be. It showed me who I could become.

What the UK Taught Me About Belonging

Returning to the UK taught me that belonging is not a place—it’s a feeling you carry within you.

England reminded me of the girl I once was.

Scotland reminded me of the woman I’m becoming.

I didn’t find the closure I expected, but I found something else. I found peace with the past, hope for the future, and gratitude for every version of myself who helped me get here.

If you want to read more about how this trip made me reflect on identity and belonging, I wrote a companion essay here.

Snapshots Of My Trip to The UK and Scotland

The post Chronicles of (Mis)adventures in the UK: Finding Belonging in Old Places and New Versions of Myself appeared first on Wonderlust.

**SPOILERS AHEAD**

Heneral Luna (the movie, not the general per se), is loved by Filipino audiences, including myself. It’s a breath of fresh air amidst drama-laden films that Filipinos are accustomed to. I love it so much that I re-watch it occasionally, especially when I’m feeling homesick.

And whenever I watch the movie, I can’t help but realize, for the nth time, that history does repeat itself. From Heneral Luna to the drug war waged by Duterte, the parallelism isn’t so subtle.

(You can watch it in Youtube, Netflix and Amazon Prime– depending on your region, of course.)

Because I’ve seen the movie several times, I’ve had the opportunity to analyze scenes that piqued my interest. Of course, the movie has many memorable sequences, but some specifically made me pause the film, think about it, and then write about it. One such example is this clip (watch carefully from the 2:06 mark) :

This sequence really piqued my curiosity in the whole movie. No matter how many times I watch it, I can’t help but ask, “Why did the director allocate precious moments of screentime for this particular shot?”

Chekov’s Gun, a key principle in dramatic writing, asserts that every element within a story must be relevant, with any irrelevant elements removed.

Therefore, it begs the question: Why is this scene relevant? What message does the writer/director want to convey to the viewers?

In the movie, Joven, the journalist (the guy in the white button-up shirt), has his hand shot. Could this symbolize the beginning of the end for freedom of speech? Is it a figurative representation of silencing the media? It could be, as the following scenes, not included in the clip above (you’ll need to watch the rest of the film), show Buencamino, the then Foreign Affairs Secretary, planting doubts in Aguinaldo’s mind about Luna’s intentions to seize power. This, of course, ultimately led to Luna’s death. Afterward, we see Luna’s loyal men “vanishing” one by one.

Nanlaban? (translation: they fought back?)

How Duterte’s drug war redefined the word ‘Nanlaban’

For context, the word nanlaban in modern Filipino usage has a political undertone. The word itself means “fought back” or “resisted”. But Duterte’s war on drugs turned it to a controversial and politically charged term.

During Duterte’s presidency, he waged a “war” against drugs. The idea behind the war was ‘noble’– a drug-free Philippines = safer country = more economic growth. But the execution was bloody, unconstitutional and inhumane.

Police officers murdered random citizens, including children, day after day, under the guise of the “war on drugs.” When asked each time why they killed these people, the response was always the same: “Nanlaban sila” (they fought back). This was true regardless of whether there was any evidence they were drug dealers, whether they had surrendered to the police a week prior, whether the arrests were illegal because they hadn’t been read their Miranda rights, or even if the victims were children. It simply didn’t matter to Duterte and his cronies.

For them, they all deserved to die.

The media covered these killings extensively, the airwaves laden with news of killings left, right and center. The situation reached a point where the ICC (International Criminal Court) and the UN (United Nations) became involved.

And yet, in spite of the noise, Duterte remained in power until his term ended.

History Repeats Itself: From Betrayal in Heneral Luna to the Muzzling of Media Today

This relates to the clip where Joven was shot in the hand—his dominant hand, the one he uses to write his pieces—as I believe the scene symbolizes the ‘death’ of press freedom and the nation’s freedom from colonizers.

During Duterte’s time, journalists and the media were heavily criticized, branded as “fake news” peddlers. They became targets of name-calling and vilification from Duterte’s mob of supporters. He imprisoned his staunc critics (Senator Leila de Lima and journalist Maria Ressa as prime examples). He silenced anyone who spoke against him in some way or another.

This is reminiscent of the scene where Apolinario Mabini (chief adviser to the president) and Emilio Aguinaldo (the First Filipino president during the Filipino-American War) were discussing Luna. In the film, Luna was a critic of the cabinet’s plan to negotiate with the Americans. Mabini brings up the deceased Bonifacio (another revolutionary leader), heavily implying Aguinaldo’s involvement in his death. Mabini also foreshadows in the scene that Luna could meet the same end if his dissent continues.

The movie Heneral Luna, though only a movie, is based on an actual person, a real-life General and hero of the country. As such, the movie serves as a mirror of Filipino society, whether in the past or present. At the end of the film, we see how Luna died in the hands of his fellows. Sadly, such is a recurrent theme in Philippine history.

Overall, I highly recommend the movie Heneral Luna. You don’t have to be Filipino or even know what/where the Philippines is. The movie explores themes of nationalism, patriotism, betrayal and the cost of freedom–themes that we all universally relate to.

The post History on Repeat: From Heneral Luna to the Drug War appeared first on Wonderlust.

If Costa Rica opened my heart to adventure, Peru opened my lungs—literally—by squeezing the air out of them. After making a promise in Costa Rica to live and not just exist, I decided to honor that promise by heading to Peru. Once again, I’d be hitting two birds with one stone: volunteer and travel.

By the time I boarded my flight to Lima, I wasn’t just carrying a backpack. I carried Spain’s chaos, Italy’s lessons, Costa Rica’s healing, and the quiet confidence that maybe—just maybe—I was getting better at this whole “solo traveler with questionable choices” thing. I truly believed I had a decent handle on traveling alone. Not an expert, but experienced enough… or so I thought.

Then I landed in Cusco, and the Andes basically said, “Girl, sit your ass down.”

First Impressions: The Country That Makes You Earn Its Beauty

While waiting for my connecting flight in Lima, the early morning air, the hum of Spanish mixed with Quechua, and the bright colors of local culture all struck me at once. It was chaotic and beautiful, familiar and foreign in the same breath.

I was jolted out of this sensory haze when I realized I was waiting at the wrong gate—with only 20 minutes left to fix the situation. So off I went, semi-sprinting with my 40L backpack like an overstuffed turtle. By some miracle, I not only made it in time, but I was greeted with an unexpected seat upgrade. Business class, yay!

The bliss was short-lived. I slept through most of the flight, only to step out into the thin, icy air of Cusco—the same air that promptly punched the oxygen out of my lungs. Peru wastes no time introducing itself.

The Volunteering Week — Where It All Begins

Before the sightseeing, before Machu Picchu, before the food that nearly converted me into a Peruvian grandmother, there was my week volunteering in a community clinic.

I was lucky that the clinic I was assigned to was just walking distance from my host family’s home. Every morning, after a delicious breakfast prepared to me by my host parents, I trekked (okay, I just walked but the altitude made it feel like a mini-trek!) to my assignment, said the cursory introductions and headed off to my assigned unit.

Because my Spanish level was higher than the other volunteers, I was assigned solo. Good for the ego; terrifying for my soul.

Speaking Spanish while traveling is cute.
Speaking Spanish in a medical setting?
That’s when havoc starts.

Day 1: I forgot the professional word for “buttocks.”
Day 2: A patient spoke so fast I thought he was reciting the entire history of Peru.
Day 3: A senior nurse nearly lost faith in humanity when I couldn’t understand “lapicero.” (I swear, the moment she said lapicero rojo, something finally clicked in my Neanderthal brain.)

But despite these little humiliations, working in that clinic reminded me exactly why I wanted to keep this volunteering tradition alive. It wasn’t glamorous, and it wasn’t meant for Instagram. It was grounding, human, and real.

The (Mis)Adventures Begin

You’d think after Spain, Italy, and Costa Rica, I’d have learned my lessons.
Nope. The Andes humbled me in ways I did not know were possible.

Here’s how Peru added new chapters to my growing collection of travel chaos.

(Mis)Adventure #1: Altitude: Pachamama Said “Not Today”

I prepared for altitude, I really did. I took Acetazolamide, brought migraine and nausea meds, and packed layers for the cold. I also believed I had a high cold tolerance—years ago I proudly referred to myself as a “polar bear.”

And when I stepped out of the car that drove me to my host family’s house, I thought to myself, “well, this isn’t so bad.” Until I climbed the steps to my designated room.

Cusco sits at over 3,000 meters above sea level.
My lungs were like: “Absolutely not!”

Breathless. Dizzy. On the brink of migraine.
A taste of what COPD feels like (minus the decades of smoking).

My host family quickly came to the rescue with coca tea—made from the same plant cocaine is derived from, but perfectly legal and incredibly helpful. They brewed soup, made sure I ate, and even rubbed Vicks on my chest in the same loving way Filipino lolas do. With their care, I got back on my feet.

Lesson learned: Never underestimate altitude or the healing powers of local folk medicine. Remember, modern science was based on traditional medicine anyway.

(Mis)adventure #2: Machu Picchu: Instagram vs Reality

Nobody visits Peru without going to Machu Picchu. It’s the law. I imagined the iconic view—those ancient ruins floating above the clouds.

Before my trip, I had the beautiful image of the ancient Incan ruins against the backdrop of tall, lush mountains in my mind. I’ve seen the photos on Instagram and watched countless videos about Peru and Machu Picchu on Youtube. I also coordinated closely with the tour operator to make sure I had a smooth trip to Ollantaytambo (the province where Aguas Calientes– the “gateway to Machu Picchu” is located).

Every Instagram post: glorious ruins above the clouds.
My Machu Picchu? Glorious ruins inside the clouds.

It rained. It was humid. My hair tried to ascend to the spiritual plane. But somewhere in that mess, the sky opened up, the fog rolled away, and the ruins revealed themselves in full glory. The combination of history, culture, altitude, and sheer natural beauty is something photos will never fully capture.

Lesson Learned: Reality >>> Instagram. Every time.

(Mis)adventure #3: Palcoyo Mountain And A Lesson In Humility

I skipped Rainbow Mountain to be “practical” and “realistic”. At this point in my stay in Cusco, I’m still battling the dregs of a cold, and altitude sickness, and knowing my physical state, I knew I couldn’t endure more hiking (unless horses or llamas are offered as alternatives to walking). While shorter than the more famous Rainbow Mountain, Palcoyo shared the same beautiful mineral-colored stripes. And unlike its famous sibling, Palcoyo is more accessible with shorter hikes and fewer crowds. I chose Palcoyo because it’s supposed to be “easier”.

HAHAHA. LIES.

At the trailhead, I started confidently. That confidence lasted about three minutes.

Then I started huffing. Puffing. Bargaining with gravity. Wondering if llamas would judge me for dying on their mountain.

Locals walked past me with supernatural ease—tiny Andean ninjas in alpaca sweaters.

The summit, though muted with clouds, was still breathtaking. Mineral-colored stripes of red, yellow, purple, and green spread across the landscape like an otherworldly painting.

Coming down was another story. Nothing helped—not Agua Florida, not coca candies. The tour guide practically rescued me down the slope while I wheezed like a broken harmonica.

Lesson learned: Know your limits. Travel isn’t a competition.

(Mis)adventure #4: Huacachina– The Overpriced Oasis

Instagram calls Huacachina a “desert paradise”.
Reality: It’s Coachella + Spring break + premium pricing + sand everywhere

It’s a small town filled with party hostels and bars, where a single banana costs 3 soles. (It’s 1 sol literally everywhere else.)

And as someone who is basically a 60-year-old tita inside a 30-something body, this was not my vibe.

But none of the blogs warned me about this, so there I was—confused, introverted, slightly irritated, and surrounded by reggaeton.

Still, there were bright spots:

Pros:
• sandboarding
• beautiful dunes
• lively food scene
• great place to meet fellow travelers
• gorgeous oasis at night

Cons:
• expensive
• party-heavy
• tiny town
• more “do something” than “see something”
• did I mention expensive?

But honestly?
Sandboarding turned me into the happiest screaming potato sliding down a dune. The sunset was magical. The experience—unexpectedly fun.

And watching the sunset glow red among the sand after a high-adrenaline adventure was worth the expensive bananas and chifa.

Lesson learned: Some places aren’t your vibe, and that’s okay. They still hold moments worth remembering.

(Mis)adventure #5: The Best Gastronomic Adventure

Did you know that Peru has almost 4,000 species of potatoes? And that they eat alapacas and guinea pigs?

Peru’s cuisine is incredible.

I tried:

Ceviche– brighter and more textured than Costa Rica’s.

Alpaca stew– honestly, the difference between alpaca meat and regular beef is barely noticeable. I feel like alpaca stew has a slightly gamier texture. The one I tried was braised, so it was savory and slightly sweet.

Cuy (guinea pig)– yes, it’s considered food in Peru. I’ve tried it Asado, or roasted, and it really just tastes like chicken, but oilier. I understand how some people might not be up to it, but as an adventurous eater, I loved it!

Anticuchos de Corazon (beef hearts skewers)– grilled cow heart and liver. I’m a big fan of organ meats, and grilled is the best way to eat it, in my opinion. This is one of the Peruvian dishes that I still eat from time to time even after my trip because it’s reminiscent of my youth in the PH.

Lomo saltado– the quintessential must-try Peruvian dish because it has such low barrier to entry. It’s beef chunks, stir-fried with vegetables. Served with rice and potatoes on the side. As a Filipino, this speaks closely to my Asian palate– and with the rice? Oof! It’s an instant favorite!

Leche de Tigre– literally translates to ‘tiger’s milk’. Supposed to be an aphrodisiac, it’s the marinating liquid left after having finished ceviche.

Pisco sour– Peru’s famous cocktail. As the name implies, it is a sour drink made of pisco (Peruvian brandy), lemon or lime juice, and egg whites. Some preparations add a little bit of sweetener to balance the taste. It has a frothy texture.

Chicha morada– my favorite! It’s a traditional, non-alcoholic drink made from purple corn, fruits and spices. The fruits give it a sweet taste, but the cinnamon and other spices give it a unique flavor. The purple hue from native purple corn also gives it a distinct look.

Obviously, I just barely scratched the surface of Peru’s vibrant gastronomy scene, and there’s so much more to try and discover. But what I learned is that culture comes served in many forms, and one of those is through food.

Lesson learned: Food is one of the most intimate ways to understand a place.

(Mis)adventure #6: The People Who Made Peru Feel Like Home

Across six different cities—Cusco, Puno, Arequipa, Huacachina, Paracas, and Lima—I met people who touched my journey in small, unforgettable ways. My host family cared for me like their own child. Volunteers became instant friends. Tour guides shared jokes older than the Incas. Even hotel staff went out of their way to make sure I was comfortable when I was sick.

I’ll never forget that experience: I arrived too early for check-in at a hotel, and the receptionist was very kind and let me stay in the lounge. Noticing that I sounded congested and looked a little under the weather, he personally made me warm coca tea and arranged a small snack for me while I waited. Nowhere in my travels had I experienced this level of warmth and welcome, given that the hotel wasn’t the “fancy kind” like the Marriott. And yet the staff went above and beyond, preparing packed breakfasts for me when I had to leave early and missed the free breakfast buffet I had availed.

Lesson learned: Beautiful landscapes draw you in, but the people make you want to stay.

(Mis)adventure #7: Animals: Peru’s Lethal Weapon

There’s nothing more rewarding than an animal taking a liking to you. I used to see animals as background actors until I had close encounters with them.

Alpacas— adorable and always photo-ready. They are always a welcome sight everywhere I went.

Llamas– the stars and divas of the Andes. As with alpacas, I made sure to capture a video or photo of these wonderful creatures.

Seals– seeing them bask under the warm sun on Ballestas Island was a treat! They were so chill and unbothered!

Guinea pigs– revered, adored and eaten, they are cute as pets, useful as spiritual guides and healers, and my personal opinion– tasty as lunch.

Lesson learned: Always stop for animals. They are easily the least stressful part of the journey.

(Mis)adventure #8: One-bagging May Not Be For You And That’s Okay

I was determined to be a cool one-bag minimalist traveler. That fantasy died in Cusco’s markets.

Two ponchos, one alpaca blanket, sweaters, souvenirs, and random things I absolutely “needed” later… I had three and a half bags.

At first, I considered it a personal failure. I read about how traveling with one bag is the best way to travel and I wanted to look like those Instagram one-baggers who breeze through airports with a single backpack. But Peru humbled me real bad.

Temperatures changed wildly between regions, volunteering required different clothing from sightseeing, and no matter how much I wanted to be a minimalist, my travel style just wasn’t there yet. I spent half the trip wishing I had packed certain things — and the other half carrying the weight of all the “just in case” items I didn’t even use.

But here’s the part I want to remember:

It’s okay if I’m not a one-bag traveler right now. Travel isn’t a competition. It’s a skill you learn.

Packing is part of the journey too. And like altitude acclimation, it takes time.

Lesson learned: One day I might become a sleek, efficient, one-bag wanderer…
Today is not that day. And that’s fine.

What Peru Taught Me

In the end, Peru didn’t just test me—it stretched me, humbled me, fed me, scared me, and held me. It reminded me that growth often hides in thin air, in sore legs, in missed breaths, in unexpected kindness, and in saying yes to things I never imagined myself doing. I arrived in Peru thinking I was getting the hang of solo travel, and left knowing there is still so much to learn—and that’s exactly what keeps me wandering.

Peru will always be the place that squeezed the breath out of my lungs but expanded my world in return. And for that, I am deeply grateful.

Next stop? Another chapter, another country, and probably another set of misadventures I’ll laugh about later.

Snapshots of My Solo Trip to Peru

Cusco

Puno, Uros and Taquile

Arequipa

Huacachina

Paracas

Lima

The post Chronicles of (Mis)adventures in Peru: Altitude, Alpacas and Everything in Between appeared first on Wonderlust.

Most often, these posts (including mine) revolve around one recurring theme:

“Traveling helps you find yourself.”

And then go on to dazzle you with how feeding the elephants in Thailand or watching the sunrise in Bali was a spiritual moment.

Hey, I’m not shitting on these bloggers or influencers—because I am one of them. While I laugh at the superficiality of some travel content, there’s still a nugget of truth in what they say: travel does change you—or at least something in you.

However, what happens when you travel to find yourself, and instead, you find your limits?

Because let’s admit it, nobody really talks about the discomfort that comes along with the exotic photos.

Dipping In– Then Diving Deep

When I first started traveling, I kept it simple and safe. Stay in major cities. Book an airbnb or a hostel smack in the center of town. A short volunteer stint. A homestay. Set meals, a comfortable bed, and a predictable routine. The goal was to dip my toes in the water and see if I could take it.

The following year, though, I didn’t just dip my toes—I dove in headfirst. And boy, oh boy… let’s just say it was a shock to my system

In my Chronicles of (Mis)adventures in Costa Rica post, I briefly talked about the lessons I learned on that trip, and among them, the one that stood out most was learning to push my limits.

What I didn’t realize then was that this lesson would follow me everywhere—from Central America to Europe, to the Andes, from jungles to high-altitude cities—and reshape the way I travel.

The Reluctant Adventurer

See, I’m not normally physically active. I don’t work out, and I don’t hike. I like to walk to explore, but for specific reasons. Meaning, I don’t mind walking long distances as long as there’s a destination and purpose. I’m not particularly hyped about the idea of just walking for the sake of… walking.

Also, I hate climbing. I never got the appeal of hiking an elevation just to see a view. Hence, up to that point, I had never done any nature trips.

And ziplining, rock climbing, rappelling? I used to not get it. Why subject yourself to sore muscles for three seconds of adrenaline? Isn’t life on the ground thrilling enough?

As for animals, while I don’t particularly hate or fear them, I was never especially excited about them either. I saw them as necessary for the ecosystem (and, let’s be honest, as food), but that was about it.

Yet somehow, travel challenged all of my physical, emotional, and mental boundaries—and that’s when everything changed.

Hanging Bridges and High Hopes

Over the past few years, I’ve done things I never imagined I’d do: ziplining, rappelling, hiking, and horseback riding– all in unfamiliar countries and often alone. I’ve crossed hanging bridges suspended hundreds of meters from the ground, and observed animals in their natural habitats.

Each time, I was full of apprehension, fear, and excitement. Everything was a first for me. These experiences—beautiful but uncomfortable—pushed me to my limits and changed me in ways I didn’t expect

The Beauty of Discomfort

The reality of travelling is that it involves some kind of discomfort that can make or break your experience. For me, the discomforts had not turned me away from travel– they revealed who I was and what I could handle.

1. Canceled Plans and Letting Go

As much as I plan my itineraries down to the last detail, something always goes wrong. Canceled tours. Missed buses. Rain on the one day I booked the jungle hike.

The first time it happened, I panicked. I went into overdrive in contacting customer support, asking for a refund. I felt completely lost about what to do next.

But with time and a few misadventures later, I learned to adapt and embrace the inevitable. I became more flexible and found joy in the unexpected. Now, when plans fall through, I can pivot easily: book another tour on the fly, explore a nearby town, or simply rest.

Sometimes, the best travel days are the ones that weren’t planned at all.

2. Exhaustion and Honesty

When I first loaded my itineraries with back-to-back adventures, I both over- and underestimated myself.

Take the time I hiked in El Tigre in Monteverde. I was scared of getting lost in the jungle and nervous about crossing hanging bridges. But I emerged alive, breathless—yes—but also exhilarated. Turns out I can hike; I just didn’t know it.

Later, in Ecuador, I even hiked on my own without a tour group. And in Peru, I learned the opposite lesson: when the altitude sickness hit me hard in Cusco, I realized that sometimes your body just says “no.” By the time I reached Palcoyo Mountain, I was so exhausted that I couldn’t enjoy the view.

That day taught me that pushing yourself is admirable—but respecting your limits is wiser.

Listening to My Body

Travel taught me to listen to my body and be honest about what I enjoy. I still want to see beautiful landscapes, but I’ve learned that I don’t need to torture myself to do it.

I realized that there are certain conditions that I’m not willing to endure, even though the experience might be amazing or beautiful. For example, if hiking up a steep trail means being miserable the entire way, no view—no matter how majestic—will be worth it.

For example, in Peru, the altitude in Cusco really hit me hard. So, when I hiked up the Palcoyo Mountain (sister to the Rainbow Mountain), I was so tired and so breathless, that I didn’t enjoy the summit. Worse, it made me lose zest to the rest of the tour because even after the descent, I was still catching my breath and was then nursing a migraine. I still enjoyed my trip of course, but I learned to listen to my body and accept what it can and cannot do.

I still want to see beautiful landscapes, but realizing that I’m not into strenuous and long hikes, I came up with a similarly enriching compromise– horseback riding.

I used to be apprehensive about horses. I saw them as unpredictable and feared being thrown off. But after trying it once, my fear turned into fascination. Now, I love it so much that I’ve spent entire trips exploring landscapes on horseback.

It’s funny how facing one fear can open an entirely new way to experience the world.

From Indifference to Fascination

Animals used to be background characters in my travels. But once I started observing them in nature—birds, monkeys, horses—I began to appreciate how alive and interconnected everything was.

In later trips, I found myself noticing every detail: neighborhood dogs, street cats, birds overhead. I went from indifference to curiosity, and from curiosity to genuine connection.

Travel softened me in ways I didn’t expect

Redefining What “Real Travel” Means

I used to believe that “real travel” meant being rugged—backpacking, roughing it out, and surviving on instant noodles.

Now, I realize that authenticity doesn’t depend on discomfort. Comfort doesn’t make travel less real.

Just because I prefer a horse to a hike, or a soft bed to a sleeping bag, doesn’t make me less adventurous. Just because I skip the bar-hopping nights at hostels doesn’t mean I’m not interested in the city.

Travel isn’t a competition– it’s a conversation between you and the world. And only you know what kind of traveler you are.

The Real Discovery

Travel has given me more than memories; it’s given me self-discovery and acceptance.

What my mind, body, and heart can endure is uniquely mine. And that’s the beauty of it.

Pushing yourself to do new things will teach you more than staying on your couch ever will– but learning when to stop teaches you something even deeper: grace.

Related Post

Chronicles of (Mis)adventures in Costa Rica — The trip that started it all and taught me the beauty (and chaos) of saying yes to the unknown.

The post Finding Limits in Solo Travel: A Journey of Self-Discovery appeared first on Wonderlust.

Since then, I’ve promised myself that this would be my new obsession. While others collect butterflies or vinyl records, I collect birthday memories in different countries. The only hindrance was the COVID pandemic, but as soon as restrictions eased, I went back to celebrating my birthday abroad.

Then, one day while bored at work, I dreamed of another personal tradition: volunteering. Once a year, I’d volunteer my services as a nurse in a different country, combining my love for travel with my nursing skills.

That dream led to my first brush with Costa Rica, and in extension, Latin America—a region I’d never given much thought before.

After that special week of volunteering, I made a promise much like Gen. Douglas MacArthur when he left the Philippines during World War II: “I shall return.”

I left Costa Rica with a full heart and a quiet promise — that I’d come back, not as a volunteer, but as a traveler ready to celebrate life itself.

And I did. I returned for my birthday and collected experiences that enriched my life in more ways than one.

The Second Arrival: Same Place, Different Eyes

My first day back in Costa Rica felt like coming home. I was met with familiar humidity, warm holas and Pura Vida, and the polite smiles of locals. My travel jitters slowly ebbed away and were replaced with confidence as I navigated the familiar airport.

Previously, I was stiff with nervous excitement about volunteering. “Where’s my driver?” “Is my Spanish good enough for the hospital?” “What if they send me to a rural clinic?”

This time, I was calmer. Instead of worrying about masks and gloves, I was thinking about beaches, rainforests, and good food.

And above all, I looked forward to reuniting with Marlen, my host mom in San José.

(Mis)adventure #1: The Itinerary That Forgot About Rest

I wanted this trip to be perfect. I planned everything—intercity transport, tours, activities… even meal times. My itinerary looked like a military operation: Puerto Viejo de Talamanca, the Jaguar Rescue Center, Monteverde, Arenal, Manuel Antonio—you’d think I had unlimited energy.

It only took one sleepless bus ride and a cranky morning coffee for me to realize: rest is also part of the adventure.

Lesson learned: Slow down, breathe, and let Costa Rica happen to you.

(Mis)adventure #2: Weather, Seasons, and When the Tour Gets Canceled (Relax, That’s Okay!)

My birthday falls in May—Costa Rica’s low season. And the weather? Let’s just say it has personality.

Some of my tours were canceled due to low participation (translation: I was the only one who booked) or weather issues.

The old me would’ve panicked. The new, Pura Vida me just shrugged, smiled, and took it as a blessing in disguise.

When a forest tour got canceled, I rented a bike, grabbed groceries for breakfast, and rode to the beach instead. By afternoon, the skies opened up—proof again that Costa Rica has a wicked sense of humor.

Later in Manuel Antonio, another tour got canceled. Instead, I treated myself to dinner by the sea and people-watched for hours.

Those unplanned moments—those pauses—became the highlights.

Lesson learned: Check the forecast, but also accept that canceled tours make the best stories.

(Mis)Adventure #3: Speaking the Language of Pura Vida

During my first trip, my Spanish was what I called “survival mode”—just enough to ask for food or directions.

This time, I could hold real conversations. My pronunciation improved, and though I stumbled through verb tenses, the locals were patient and kind. I chatted with drivers, tour guides, and other travelers.

The hike up to the mirador for Arenal Volcano was more fun because I could talk to people, not just smile awkwardly.

I learned that language is more than words; it’s the bridge between being a tourist and feeling at home.

Lesson learned: Learning the local language isn’t just convenient—it transforms you from a tourist into a participant.

(Mis)Adventure #4: Getting Out of My Comfort Zone (and Into the Sky)

I used to be terrified of heights. So what did I do?

Zipline through a rainforest at 60 miles per hour.

And, rappelled down waterfalls.

I used to hate hiking. Guess who trekked through a muddy rainforest to see monkeys and toucans?

I used to think horses were scary. Guess who’s now halfway to becoming a vaquera (cowgirl)?

Somewhere between screaming and laughing, I realized travel is about surrender—to fear, joy, and the unknown.

Lesson learned: Courage sometimes sounds like a shriek in the treetops.

(Mis)Adventure #5: The Things the Philippines Taught Me (That Saved Me in Costa Rica)

Costa Rica and the Philippines share a lot in common—weather, food, hospitality. But I didn’t realize how my Filipino upbringing trained me for Costa Rica’s beautiful chaos.

One day, when the sun was beating down, I instinctively grabbed a banana leaf and used it as an umbrella. The locals smiled at me approvingly.

When my rented bike sped downhill faster than I liked, childhood memories of navigating concrete hills in the unpaved barangay roads kicked in.

Even the traffic jams and long bus waits? Easy. Patience is a tropical skill.

Lesson learned: Your roots prepare you more than you realize.

(Mis)Adventure #6: Never Underestimate the Mosquitoes

You’d think I’d have learned by now, but no—I didn’t bring enough bug spray. Costa Rican mosquitoes showed no mercy. The bugs had an all-expense-paid buffet on my legs. I left that trip with more bite marks than souvenirs.

Lesson learned: DEET so you can yeet them bugs!

(Mis)Adventure #7: The One Thing I’ll Always Regret

When I first came to Costa Rica, I lived with a wonderful host named Marlen. She was warm, funny, and patient with my broken Spanish. She introduced me to local dances, taught me new recipes, and showed me what Pura Vida really means—not as a slogan, but as a way of life.

When I returned to Costa Rica for my birthday, I had planned to visit her. I sent her a message, letting her know I was in the country and asked if she would be willing to have a quick lunch when I’m back in San Jose.

She responded.But we never got to have that lunch. Why?

I learned that Marlen had been diagnosed with cancer. The news stopped me cold. I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing. I sent a short “I’ll pray for you” message and went quiet.

That silence is one of my biggest regrets.

I think about her often—the woman who welcomed a stranger into her home and changed her life in small, lasting ways. I wish I had told her thank you, in person, for everything she taught me.

Lesson learned: Never postpone gratitude. Some goodbyes can’t wait.

Pura Vida, Full Circle

Coming back to Costa Rica felt like returning to myself. It reminded me that travel isn’t just about places—it’s about people, animals, and moments that leave marks on your soul.

Experiencing Pura Vida again was magical. I ate more food, saw more places, met new faces, and felt the rhythm of life I missed.

Costa Rica truly lives up to its name—Rich Coast—not just for its landscapes but for the richness it leaves in your heart.

The moments you think are fleeting often become the ones that stay forever.

Snapshots from My Birthday in Costa Rica

The post Chronicles of (Mis)adventures: Costa Rica– The Promise I Kept appeared first on Wonderlust.

This trip was extra special because it doubled as my birthday celebration. With more travel wisdom under my belt, I wanted this one to feel easy, fun, and fully me.

Before packing my bags, I started learning Italian—it wasn’t easy at first, but by the time I flew out, I could order food, buy things, and understand directions. Still, despite my preparation, I managed to stumble into some pretty memorable (mis)adventures.

(Mis) adventure #1: Wrong footwear

Even after traveling to Spain, I somehow forgot the number one rule of European trips: comfortable shoes first, cute shoes later.

If you’re packing light, bring one versatile, cushioned pair—trust me, your feet will thank you. I learned the hard way that walking for hours on Italy’s cobblestone streets isn’t fun in minimalist sneakers.

Now, I travel with padded shoes and treat my feet to nightly TLC.

Tip: Break in your shoes before the trip. Your future self will thank you.

(Mis)adventure #2: Forgetting Sunscreen

You’d think a nurse would know better, right? I used to believe my Southeast Asian genes protected me from sunburn. Italy proved me wrong.

By noon, the sun went from gentle to vengeful, and by 2 pm I couldn’t smile without pain.

Lesson learned: the sun isn’t picky.

Notice the awkward smiles. My lips got swollen from the excessive sun exposure. Never again, lol!

Tip: Always pack sunscreen and SPF lip balm.

(Mis)adventure #3: Trying Too Hard to Fit In

Before my trip, I studied Italian culture, fashion, and etiquette– then overdid it.

That’s how I ended up looking like a lost extra from a Renaissance play. One day I wore a top that made me look like a trying-hard medieval painter; another I squeezed into a dress so unflattering that I refused to take pictures altogether. One outfit even ripped on the train–proof that the universe humbles you when you get too confident!

Beyond the wardrobe fiascos, I also filled my itinerary with attractions that were “highly recommended” even though they weren’t really my thing. I tried to dress, eat, and act like a local–even though no amount of Italian vocabulary could disguise my wide-eyed tourist energy.

The result? I felt uncomfortable and out of place, all because I was chasing an image of what I thought traveling should look like.

Lesson learned: You don’t have to fit in to belong. Listen to advice, yes, but always make space for your own preferences, pace, and personality. Traveling isn’t about imitation; it’s about exploration.

(Mis)adventure #4: Not Trying Enough Street Food

Sure, I devoured my share of pizza, pasta, tiramisu, and gelato, but I regret not exploring more of Italy’s street-food scene.

Here are a few favorites that I did try:

First is this snack that I ate in Verona called Arancino–crispy rice balls filled with mozzarella.

Next are the ever-famous cannoli— bite-sized heaven in lemon and chocolate.

Sfogliatelle are these flaky pastries with sweet, creamy filling. Similar to the cornetto (“Italian croissant”), but lighter and, in my opinion, less flaky. The variant I tried had powdered sugar dusted on top.

Below is a humble cup of strawberries with Nutella and whipped cream. Nothing spectacular, but I loved it! It’s not something I eat often, so the novelty was very much welcome.

Bombolone are Italy’s answer to donuts, only better.

And of course, you’ll never go wrong with a cornetto and a cappuccino in the morning:

Still, I missed local gems like maritozzo and tartufo. Well, that’s reason enough to go back!

(Mis) adventure #5: Forgetting a Boredom Buster

Long train rides look romantic—until your phone dies mid-trip. On my Milan-to-Rome ride, I spent an hour staring at strangers, wishing I’d brought a book or downloaded a show.

So my advice to my fellow travelers/wonderers: make sure to bring a little “boredom buster”, may it be a book, a series, a puzzle book, to kill the time. Especially in Europe, where train schedules may be unpredictable.

Lesson learned: pack something to keep you entertained. Trains get delayed; boredom is real. A small distration can save your sanity.

Final Thoughts

Italy was beautiful, unpredictable, and unforgettable. My mistakes turned into lessons, and my lessons turned into stories.

No matter how seasoned a traveler you become, (mis)adventures are inevitable—and they make every trip richer.

Here’s to more laughter, more learning, and more beautiful mistakes along the way.

Arrivederci, fellow wonderers!

Snapshots From My Birthday Trip to Italy

The post Chronicles of (Mis)Adventures in Italy: Lessons, Laughs, and Sunburns from My Solo Trip appeared first on Wonderlust.

In the UK, I explored cities like Bristol, Cambridge, London and Dover during my days off.

In the USA, though, not so much. During my first few years in Houston, I was in a rough mental space and had little motivation to go anywhere.

But when the world opened up in 2022 and restrictions eased (somewhat), guess where your girl’s off to? That’s right, Spain!

And as a first-time traveler still figuring things out, I made a lot of mistakes– some funny, some inconvenient, all unforgettable.

So here are my top (mis)adventures in Spain (for both times I visited), and what I learned from each one.

(Mis) adventure #1: Traveling During Local Holidays

My first mistake was not checking Spain’s public holidays.

I accidentally landed right in the middle of a Labor Day protest– and somehow ended up marching with them!

The rally happened right in front of my hostel and continued to Plaza Mayor. While I didn’t join intentionally, I ended up marching with them in solidarity, as it was a march for improved wages and working conditions for hospital workers. Since I work in healthcare, I felt an instant connection. As a nurse myself, I couldn’t help but walk alongside them in solidarity.

Still, the protest meant heavy traffic, closed restaurants, and delayed sightseeing.

(If you’re curious how I ended up marching with local protesters in Madrid, I literally just went up to them, and in my broken Spanish told them that I believe in what they’re fighting for. The lady gave me a hug, took a photo with me holding their banner, and next thing I knew, I marched with them up to Plaza Mayor. Unfortunately, I can’t find that photo anymore.)

Lesson learned: Always check local holidays before your trip. Track the local news too. They might affect transportation, dining, or museum schedules.

(Mis) adventure #2: Doing Zero Research (And Paying the Price– Literally)

I usually plan everything down to the hour, but not that time. I just listed down “must-see” attractions in a notebook and winged it.

Big mistake.

_{Templo de Debod one year apart. Both times, the museum was closed. Just my luck!}

I wasted so much time getting lost in the metro, showing up at closed museums, and even missed my train to Avila because I overslept and forgot to top up my data plan. I had to call my provider mid-trip just to fix it. (Never again. I’ve since switched to T-Mobile.)

Above is an unflattering photo of me ruminating my (mis) adventure in a train to Avila.

I eventually got there, but not without the frustration.

I’ve redeemed myself since, and my second time in Spain went smoother, although, still with a few minor bumps.

Lesson learned: Research everything—distance, train times, ticket availability, and even SIM card top-ups. It saves both time and sanity.

(Mis) adventure #3: Traveling Sick Without Proper Medication

When I first visited Spain, the weather was glorious, sunny and bright.

My second trip to Spain happened in winter. The weather was crisp, festive, and… the perfect setup for catching the flu.

I thought my “emergency kit” was enough—spoiler alert: it wasn’t. I forgot vitamins and cold meds and ended up sniffling through Valencia and Málaga.

Luckily, I speak Spanish — a skill I picked up from years of learning Spanish — and was able to buy medicine easily.

I caught the sniffles when I was in Barcelona, but symptoms didn’t show up until I was in Valencia and Malaga. I remember I had chills, fever and cough, and I had to rest for one full day in the hostel. That was one full day of sightseeing lost.

But losing a full day of sightseeing to a fever? Brutal.

I recovered pretty easily, which was a good thing, but I still had the sniffles. So for the duration of my trip, I wore a mask as a courtesy to others. This was post-pandemic, so I sure got weird looks from other people. I often had to explain that “tengo congestion y por eso yo pongo una mascarilla”.

Lesson learned: Pack a small “sick kit” — vitamins, meds, and cough drops. Don’t skimp on luggage space when it comes to medications. You’ll thank yourself when your immune system waves the white flag.

(Mis) adventure #4: Overpacking Clothes You’ll Never Wear

If you’ve ever packed that “cute dress” thinking you’ll finally wear it on vacation—let’s be real: you won’t.

I did the same.

I bought so many outfits that didn’t fit or weren’t practical. Guess what I actually wore? Jeans, a t-shirt, and sneakers–every day.

At one point, I even had to buy new clothes because my packed ones were too uncomfortable.

Also, don’t overthink “dressing like a local.”

You’ll stand out anyway—just be comfortable and respectful, and you’ll blend in enough.

Lesson learned: Pack what you actually wear at home.
Comfort > aesthetics. Leave room for souvenirs, not unworn skirts.

(Mis) adventure #5: Being Too Shy To Ask For Photos

Ah yes, the solo traveler’s eternal struggle: photos that aren’t selfies.

I get it, you don’t want your phone or camera whisked away by some stranger, but if you’re traveling solo like me, I know you’re tired of selfies. I used to be too shy (and paranoid) to ask strangers to take my photo.

I worried they’d run off with my phone–or worse, take a terrible shot.

Because of that, most of my Spain photos were awkward selfies. Eventually, I got braver and started asking people politely. Turns out, most are happy to help—and even take great shots!

Lesson learned: Don’t be afraid to ask.
A genuine smile and a polite “¿Puedes tomar una foto, por favor?” go a long way.

What I Took Away From My (Mis)Adventures

Looking back, these travel mishaps made my trip unforgettable. Sure, I made plenty of mistakes, but each one taught me something valuable– about travel, patience and embracing the chaos.

I’ve since returned to Spain, a little wiser (and much more prepared).

But even now, I know that some mistakes are worth making.

Because honestly, what’s travel without a few (mis)adventures?

Until next time, wonderers! Hasta Luego!

Snapshots From My (Mis)adventures in Spain

The post Chronicles of (Mis)adventures: Spain– Getting Lost, Sick and Smarter appeared first on Wonderlust.