I hurt my thumb in Mexico and didn’t even realize it was actually broken for a month.
It happened after getting off a resort bus in the Cancun Hotel Zone — the kind of moment that should have been forgettable. On the surface I blamed it on the drinking… but if you’ve ever had resort drinks, you know the truth: they’re often so watered down they barely qualify as misbehavior.
The real reason felt more familiar than I wanted to admit.
As part of my previous illness, I fell all the time. It was never dramatic. I’d be walking… and then I’d be on the ground. No clear cause. No obvious explanation. Just gravity, suddenly winning. So when I fell this time, my brain filed it under “same old story.”
And because I’ve lived through years of chronic illness, and learned how to walk even the worst pains off (thanks to taking care of babies alone after two C-sections 18 months apart, and doing what had to be done no matter how I felt).
I did what I always do.
I adapted. I kept going.
Until the one-handed reality started making everything harder.
Opening bottles. Pulling zippers. Carrying bags. Even simple tasks became tiny negotiations. And somewhere in that steady drip of pain and inconvenience, I realized what was really bothering me.
It wasn’t just the thumb.
It was the reminder.
Because when you’re suddenly doing life one-handed, you start noticing what feels unfinished.
And weirdly… that brought me back to a completely different trip.
The trip that still tugs
In 2020, I planned a four-month adventure through Southeast Asia.
I mapped it out with the kind of care people reserve for “once-in-a-lifetime” trips — because that’s what it felt like. A big, brave, intentional chapter.
Then Covid arrived and turned those four months into two.
Half the locations I was most excited about never happened. I wanted to stay in Thailand, but with my family panicking and restaurants and hotels closing, we realized it was time to go.
I never made it to the Maeklong Railway Market — the one where the train runs right through the center and the vendors pull back their awnings like it’s just another Tuesday.
I wanted to visit an elephant sanctuary, because elephants have always felt like those rare creatures that carry both power and gentleness at the same time — and I wanted to meet that energy in a place focused on care, not entertainment.
And I planned to spend a week living with a family in the mountainous region of Vietnam, because I wanted to understand what daily life looks like far from the cities. Rural living is a little bit like stepping back in time — and I’ve always been drawn to cultures and places where you can still feel the rhythm of older ways of living.
Those weren’t just pins on a map.
They were the second half of my unfinished story.
I’ve been lamenting those missed locations and wondering when I’ll return to complete the trip I planned.
And that’s how you know it was exceptional.
Because I still want to go back.
Why some trips haunt you (in a good way)
I never had this feeling when I went to resorts.
I’m not saying resort travel is bad. Sometimes it’s exactly what a person needs — a break, a pause, a chance to exhale.
But with resort travel, the resort is the destination.
You can take advantage of day trips that have been curated for you… and they can be fun. Sometimes they’re the best part. But those excursions are often like one lick on an ice cream cone — a taste of something delicious that never fully satisfies the craving.
My husband calls cruises “floating Golden Corrals.” And honestly? I get what he means — at least with the ones I’ve been on. The ship becomes the focus. The routine becomes the point. The “destination” turns into a quick stop between buffets.
One of my best cruise memories was a shore excursion in Puerto Rico’s Laguna Grande — paddling through glowing water that felt like stardust.
But it was still a glimpse. A sampling. A bite-sized version of a place that deserved more time. So I went back.
It’s different when you research and plan the trip yourself.
When you build the route on purpose, you choose stops because they genuinely interest you — not because they’re included, not because they’re easy, not because someone else decided what should matter to you.
A photo or a video is a tease. But standing in a place is a multi-sensory experience — you can’t really know a location until you see it, hear it, feel it, touch it, and taste the food there.
That’s why the places I didn’t reach still tug at me. They weren’t casual ideas.
They were chosen.
The thumb, the backpack, and the moment it got real
Here’s what the broken thumb made me realize in a way I couldn’t ignore:
When I traveled through Southeast Asia, I did it with one large backpack — and it held everything I needed, including what I needed to work while traveling.
There is no version of that trip where I could have made it through an airport — let alone across entire countries — using only one hand.
And that thought landed heavier than I expected.
Because it wasn’t really about airports.
It was about the quiet fear I don’t love saying out loud.
The spiderweb map
The older I get, the more I realize my travel life isn’t a tidy checklist.
It’s more like walking through a spiderweb — strands connecting places, seasons, and dreams… with holes where plans were interrupted, postponed, or never carried out.
Some holes are small.
In 1990, I was doing an eastern Canadian tour and had arrived in New Brunswick, but it was pouring rain, so I drove straight through and never really saw any of it. I still remember that feeling, being so close to a place, and yet not meeting it at all.
Some holes are bigger.
Newfoundland has been on my must-see list for decades. Not in a casual “someday” way — in a “this matters to me” way.
I want to see the icebergs because they fascinate me: ages-old ice afloat in the ocean, with most of it hidden underwater. To me, they look like nature’s modern art sculptures. Beautiful, temporary, and somehow ancient at the same time.
I want to hike Gros Morne National Park, because I want to hike in every national park I visit… and the more remote, the better. It’s the peace and quiet I’m drawn to. It’s getting away from the constant modern noise, the kind that quietly assaults your ears until you forget what silence even feels like.
And I really want to experience L’Anse aux Meadows because of its historical significance. I grew up in Canada, and as far as I understand it, it’s one of the oldest known Viking settlement sites in North America. I want to stand there and try to feel what they must have felt when they came ashore all those years ago.
Ecuador was another hole — a planned trip that didn’t happen because of health and finances.
(Those two seem forced together in the U.S., like death and taxes.)
But the Ecuador planning wasn’t a waste. My son took my notes and went the following year.
And I love that — I really do.
Still… I want to go too.
The part about aging I don’t love saying out loud
I’ve noticed a lot of people stop traveling as they get older.
Not because they lose the desire — but because their bodies start setting the terms.
Usually it’s health. Mobility. Energy. Pain.
And I think that’s what this broken thumb brought to the surface for me, because the follow-up wasn’t simple.
On Friday, I went to ortho urgent care. On Monday, I saw a specialist who told me that if I’d come in sooner, this likely would have required surgery. But since it’s already partially healed — and since I’m 60 — it’s probably not worth starting over with surgery, pain, and recovery now.
Without surgery, I’m looking at arthritis in the next 10+ years, and likely needing my thumb joint fused at some point. Surgery now could reduce the chances of that… but it would mean rewinding the clock and beginning the whole recovery process again.
So I made the choice I often make: I chose the path that was financially realistic.
And the less I have to deal with insurance, the better.
Also — for the record — if anyone ever tells you, “If you can move it, it’s not broken,” or “If you throw up from the pain, you know it’s broken”…
Neither of those old wives’ tales are true.
What’s true is this: sometimes your body carries you farther than you realize… until one small injury shines a spotlight on how quickly travel can get complicated.
And that’s the part that scares me.
Because I’ve traveled through illness before. I pushed through years of nomadic RV life while terribly unwell and in pain.
But I don’t know if I can do it again.
And I don’t want my world to shrink before I’ve gone back for the places that still call me.
Gratitude, even with the open tabs
What’s interesting is: even with all these unfinished threads, I don’t feel regret the way people would assume.
If I died tomorrow, I wouldn’t be lamenting what I missed.
I’d be grateful for what I have seen.
I’ve lived a later-life full of movement and places and stories I never could’ve imagined when I was younger.
And that gratitude is real.
But so is the pull.
Newfoundland, the pause, and what’s next
I’m considering adding Newfoundland to my summer plans… and something is holding me back from finalizing it.
I can’t fully explain why, but instinct is telling me to wait a bit longer.
Maybe it’s because our parents are getting older, the political climate feels heavier than usual, or because I’m saving for a trip to Africa next year. Whatever it is, I think I need to simplify my focus for now. One dream at a time. One thread at a time. No panic. No frantic scrambling to “finish the web.”
And hopefully, not too long after Africa, I’ll go back and complete Southeast Asia — picking up where I left off.
Northern Vietnam: Hanoi, Hạ Long Bay, Hội An.
Thailand again: Phuket, Chiang Mai, northern Thailand.
And when I go back, I already know myself well enough to admit this: I’ll return to Cambodia, and I’ll plan a stop to see more of the Philippines too.
Because some trips don’t end when you leave.
They just wait.
And when a place keeps calling you back… that’s how you know it mattered.
Your turn
Is there a trip you want to return to because it was so amazing you have to go back?
Or one you want to return to because it feels unfinished — like you left the story mid-sentence?
Tell me where it is. I’d love to hear what’s still tugging at you.
