I have a theory: people who spend more time in nature are better humans.
In the same vein, I believe that those who travel with an open mind are also more likely to become better humans.
Both when I’m traveling and when I’m immersed in nature, I’m filled with the same overwhelming sense of awe—like a cinematic, dramatic zoom-out that reminds me how small and insignificant I am in this vast, interconnected world.
And yet, at the same time, I’m acutely aware that I’m still a cog—albeit a tiny one—in one of the many endless wheels that keep this whole system chugging along.
This world is built on give and take—and yet, it seems many humans have forgotten that. While undeniably tragic, I can’t help but feel a strange sense of awe at the natural disasters that have devastated entire communities. The raw, overwhelming power of the Earth is unlike anything we could ever create.
Yet to deny the part we humans have played in triggering many of these events would be delusional. Mother Nature has simply had to get increasingly aggressive in expressing her disdain. We’ve ignored her cries for decades- and now she’s fucking pissed.
This is all connected, and it’s dangerous when we forget that.
Travel can be powerful—not just because it fosters a sense of connection with the wider world, but because it deeply impacts our sense of self. It sharpens our instincts, challenges our beliefs, and pushes us outside the boundaries we didn’t even know we had. It builds resilience, improves communication, demands problem-solving, thinking on our feet, and expands our understanding of both others and ourselves.
Travel teaches us humanity
Just as we need to mend our relationship with nature, we also need to mend our relationship with each other. The constant “other-ing” and fear-mongering have blinded us to a simple truth: we actually need each other. And by the time we connect the dots, it might already be too late. Or maybe we never will—because human pride is one hell of a powerful, destructive thing.
It feels inconceivable that anyone who spends meaningful time outside their everyday life—immersed in different environments and cultures—wouldn’t walk away with a deeper sense of empathy and a broader perspective. That kind of exposure makes it impossible to ignore the truth: beyond the headlines and statistics, there are real people, real families, love, and loss.
Homogeneous living can be dangerous. We need variety to stay whole—to stay human. Diversity keeps us present, reminds us that differences can be beautiful, and pushes us to make the effort to understand one another more deeply.
Travel teaches flexibility and resilience
As much as I’ve always liked to think of myself as a “go with the flow” kind of person, I’ve had the unflattering realization that I only am—if I had no prior expectations. If nothing was planned, I’m all in. Spur-of-the-moment dinner with friends? Absolutely. “I’m easy!” I say, full of enthusiasm. But if it’s something I’ve been looking forward to—a reservation I made, an itinerary I crafted—I suddenly find myself sulking, doing a terrible job of hiding my disappointment when things don’t go as expected.
I love what travel does for me because it forces me to be adaptable, to stay open to changing plans and last-minute opportunities that shouldn’t be passed up. Missed trains, sold-out buses, local strikes that snarl transportation, or food poisoning that leaves you unable to leave your hotel room for more than an hour… these things are out of our control. But letting them ruin your trip? Not at all worth it.
Maybe my love for travel is what helps me become more malleable in these situations—because the joy of exploring always outweighs the discomfort of change. At home, there’s far less less daily excitement, so even the smallest disruption can throw me off course.
But I want to change that. I want to bring this resilience home with me, like the best damn souvenir I’ve ever found, and weave it into my everyday life.
Travel slows time and reminds me to slow down with it
When we visit unfamiliar places—even something as simple as taking a new route on a walk or a new road on the drive home from work—our brains engage in creating new neural pathways: mapping surroundings, searching for landmarks, and figuring out whether addresses go up or down.
We become fully focused and present, absorbing social cues and the shapes of buildings, staying alert for any sign of danger.
Travel can be a non-stop string of new experiences, every moment filled to the brim with adventure, confusion and flavors. Hours can stretch beyond imagination, making me balk when I glance at my watch to see it’s only 11 am after what has felt like an entire day day of discovery.
I’ve been trying to recreate this feeling in my daily life, especially as the years seem to fly by faster than ever. Small changes—like trying out a new coffee shop—help me slow down and be more present, rather than just going through the motions of my life. When I do something or go somewhere different, I’m better able to recall my weekend instead of blinking blankly when someone asks what I got up to over the break.
One of the most striking things I’ve noticed while traveling abroad is just how much of a hurry we’re always in as Americans. In many other countries, dining is a slow, intentional experience—you have to ask for the bill; it’s not just dropped off at the end of your meal.
Taking your time, catching up with friends, lingering at a table for hours is not only normal, it’s encouraged. In the U.S., that same behavior is often frowned upon. Here, time is money, and the longer you linger, the fewer tables can be turned—and the less profit a restaurant makes.
We have so much to learn from other cultures when it comes to truly enjoying our time. Americans are among the wealthiest—and sickest—people in the world. Chronic disease weighs heavily on our population, and stress is a major contributor to our declining health. While capitalism and our broken health care system bear much of the blame, taking small moments to slow down and engage with the world around us could be a step—however small—in the right direction.
Travel reminds us we are all human, just doing things differently
I love being in a city where laundry is strung overhead, zigging and zagging overhead like a collection of personal, unique flags. I find myself staring up, filled with a dozen questions: How much time does it take each week? What do they do in the winter? How often do things fall—or get stolen? How much lower are their energy bills than mine? And do their clothes last longer, spared from the relentless beating of a mechanical dryer?
Food is a huge reason many of us travel—there’s nothing better than experiencing a familiar dish made with local methods, ingredients, and flavors. A friend recently mused about how she loved that every culture cooks rice differently. It struck me as such a beautiful reminder that, at our core, we’re all the same—just moving to a different beat.
The siesta—or midday nap—felt like such a strange and inconvenient custom when I first encountered it in South America. I was genuinely annoyed at first; shops and restaurants would start closing just as I was getting into the rhythm of my day. It seemed like such a missed opportunity—businesses turning away potential income from all the tourists who would otherwise be shopping or dining.
I still feel those pangs of frustration when I come across business hours that don’t align with my own needs—but now, I’m learning to see it differently. I’ve come to respect that these business owners are choosing to value their own well-being over constant profit. It’s not what I’m used to, and my instinct is to reject it—but honestly, they’re likely still open the same number of hours each day. It just doesn’t match the schedule I’m accustomed to—and that’s okay.
Growing up in a capitalist society, this mindset doesn’t come naturally to me, but I’m starting to catch myself when those thoughts creep in. It’s beautiful. It’s healthy. And I have so much admiration for people who intentionally make space for themselves. Work is not life—or at least, I’m starting to understand that it shouldn’t be.
Travel fills me with gratitude
I return home from traveling, often tearfully, inspired by how people in other countries are living. I come home frustrated at the ways in which our country’s values are skewed, illuminated further by the time spent away. But I also come back with a deep sense of gratitude for the life I have. There’s always a flip-side to the features I fall in love with abroad, and I try to keep that into perspective.
While I’m often frustrated by the sheer number and size of vehicles in the U.S. and the lack of efficient public transportation in many cities, I’m also incredibly grateful that I can pack up my car at any moment and leave town—without relying on bus schedules or someone else’s timing. And while home prices here are out of control, I’m lucky to have a home with ample yard space on every side—even if there’s a highway humming just beyond the fence.
Politically, things are a total shitshow, and I’ve never been more ashamed to be an American. But that won’t stop me from appreciating the small luxuries—like toilet seats, toilet paper, and clean ice—that aren’t necessarily guaranteed everywhere else. I can’t say much about not living under a dictatorship like in the past, so for now, I’ll just be grateful for toilet paper.
Travel makes me a better person
I’m the best version of myself when I travel, and I’m hoping that, with time, the girl on the road might eventually take over the rigid woman at home. It won’t happen overnight, but maybe—with enough trips, enough perspective—the scale will slowly tip in the right direction.
I’d love for that adventurous, more carefree version of me to win out, so I can live a life that’s more peaceful, present, and emotionally adaptable… and finally leave the pouty version of myself sulking in the corner where she belongs.
