For as long as I can remember, I’ve believed in the transformative power of travel. In my younger, itinerary-free days of backpacking and wander-lusting, I chased experiences and collected stories. But I never imagined one of the most meaningful journeys I’d ever take would begin not with a passport stamp, but with a frantic call, a heavy heart and a two-day scramble to leave Vancouver Island.
When a family emergency pulled us across the country with little notice, logic (and today’s economy) told us to send just one person: my husband. Flights off the island are notoriously expensive, especially last minute. But something deeper made us pause. My father-in-law needed us. And while the details of his declining health are too tender to share, we knew this trip was about more than just being there. It was about our children immersing in the everyday moments with their grandfather—staring contests, magic tricks, knock-knock jokes, a sweet prayer of gratitude. It was about holding onto their special connection while the chance was still there.
What followed was a 48-hour whirlwind of canceled appointments, arranging care for my own elderly parents and coordinating homeschool and therapies. It meant missing my son’s spring concert, clearing out the fridge, setting up plant watering and transferring files to work remotely—with no return date in sight. It was costly, chaotic and it was absolutely the right thing to do.
What we didn’t expect was how this unplanned journey—laced with grief and uncertainty—would become a chance to reconnect as a family. Amidst the emotional weight, we found something surprisingly grounding. A reminder that even in crisis, travel can bring us closer.
We chose to see the journey to our destination as an adventure. Especially since the destination—a hospital room—would be as heavy as one would expect. That shift in mindset made all the difference, even for my husband, whose heart was especially burdened.
We made choices that helped ease the process. Travelling light (a miracle for us!) made a difference. Rather than packing for every “what if,” we chose only the essentials. We walked onto the ferry instead of driving, then used rideshares to reach the airport. After an awkward standoff between a taxi and a standby Uber (a definite no-no, apparently), we were finally enroute—booster seat in tow.
The biggest shock of all? We were six hours early for our flight. We are not early people. But those quiet hours before takeoff felt like a gift. In a life filled with caregiving and appointments, the absence of rushing was profoundly calming.
We chose a red-eye flight, and I won’t pretend it was easy. But the kids managed to find a few fetal-like positions that got them four solid hours of rest. There was even a minor monorail mishap (one too many loops before realizing we were heading the wrong way), but that only added to the memories—and the “I told you so’s.”
After landing, we found ourselves in the city where my husband and I began our life together. Showing our kids the skyline that shaped our younger years felt like a full-circle moment. Their little faces pressed against the window, watching the web of highways, will stay with me forever.
Eventually, we boarded the VIA Rail for the final stretch of our 25-hour journey: a train ride through the countryside. We sat face-to-face at a table—playing games, sharing snacks and actually talking. We laughed. We napped. The kids argued, then made up. Real connection—the kind that gets buried in the daily grind—rose to the surface.
This wasn’t a vacation. It was a mission. Fueled by urgency, love and sacrifice, sprinkled with worry. But our kids didn’t just survive it. They found wonder in it. They were resilient. And through the discomfort, exhaustion and unpredictability, they grew. They learned to pivot.
For those of us in the sandwich generation, the weight of caregiving on both ends can feel relentless. There’s often guilt in choosing one side over the other. But sometimes, there’s a way to blend both—to bring generations together, to model presence and compassion even in chaos.
And yes, we leaned hard on our village back home to pick up the pieces we left behind (there were plenty). But this journey reminded us that not all adventures are about escape. Some are about arrival—arriving in the hard moments, fully present. And in doing so, we discover that even the heaviest of journeys can carry moments of light.
