It occurred to me at 3:32 one morning, the witching-est of hours, the worst possible time to wake up. I was jet-lagged after flying home from Norway. My suitcase was on the floor, waiting to be unpacked and repacked for my next trip in just two weeks.
I had $247 in my checking account. I didn’t want to think about how much was in my savings account because it was probably less.
I am 53 years old, a mother of four adult children, a new-ish travel writer, and I am just now realizing that I have made my life a little ridiculous.
When I wake up the next morning, I’m easier on myself. I’m not ridiculous, even in the middle of the night, I know I’m not. But I think I took a wrong turn a few years back that felt like a right turn at the time.
Travel has always been in my blood
I always wanted to travel. Always. When I was raising my four sons as a single mom, I planned out pretend itineraries for myself online on Friday nights instead of socializing. Friends gave me their itineraries for tours of Egypt, for hiking trails through Portugal, and for a weekend in Paris. I followed along with my morning coffee, thinking, “one day.”
I couldn’t travel then, of course. I was in my 30s, raising my kids by myself. I was working cobbled-together jobs as a local baker, waitress, receptionist, anything at all to pay our bills. We survived together, and my sons grew up. They became their own people in their own lives.
Then it was my time to make some decisions about my life. I was young, just 46 years old, when my youngest turned 18. I could have gotten the education I missed out on when I became a young mom at 21. An education that might have led me to a job with a retirement plan and some security.
Instead, I wrote. I wrote for my local paper and online magazines. I wrote about motherhood. Then I finally traveled, small, cheap trips at first that I wrote about for my local paper, for online magazines. And eventually, travel, miraculously, impossibly, became one of my jobs.
It has been a dream job in many ways
Being a travel writer has been a dream in so many ways. Especially since it has given me the chance to travel with my adult kids in a way I might never have experienced otherwise.
My son and I went on a safari in South Africa after he got married. I took my daughter-in-law on our own little honeymoon to celebrate our new status together, a journey that sort of anchored us in a different way of bridging that in-law gap. I’ve flown solo to Morocco and Copenhagen, gone on a wellness retreat in Mexico, and stayed in a chateau in the south of France.
“Must be nice,” is what I hear all the time. And it is.
I’m not sure what my future will bring
Every part of this life is incredible. Until I look at my bank account, barely fueled with small payments trickling in for articles I’ve written. Until I see my older face in the mirror and remember I will need to retire someday, and I’ve done nothing to prepare.
I’ve saved up air miles instead of money. I’ve prioritized experiences over security. I can’t even think about the legacy I’m leaving for my sons. Boarding passes? Novelty tote bags? Branded water bottles from press trip swag bags?
I don’t blame the travel writing for my bank account balance; I blame my all-or-nothing attitude. I know it’s possible to do a little travel and still put money away for retirement. I know this because my 26-year-old son just sat me down with a spreadsheet to help me start saving.
According to his calculations, I might be able to retire by the time I’m 75 and still travel a bit if I’m smart about it. Finally, I might be ready to be smart about money. I’m tired of feeling ridiculous.
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