The biggest lesson from travel isn't what you think

The unexpected shifts that follow you back from vacation

You know that feeling when you first walk into your home after a trip? That brief, strange moment when your familiar space suddenly feels... different? Not exactly foreign, but not quite familiar either. Like you're seeing your everyday life through slightly adjusted eyes.

That moment isn't just jet lag talking. It might actually be the most valuable thing travel gives us—a fleeting window where we see our normal lives from a new perspective before the routine settles back in.

Most people think the magic of travel happens while you're away. But after years of exploring the world, I've discovered that the most profound impact often unfolds after you've returned—in those quiet moments when you question habits and patterns you never even noticed before.

The travel industry loves selling transformation. "This trip will change your life!" they promise, as if stepping off a plane in Bali will automatically trigger a spiritual awakening. Like enlightenment is included in your resort fee, right between the welcome drink and the turndown service.

Let's be honest: sometimes a trip is just a trip.

Sometimes you just want to sit by a pool drinking margaritas for five days, and the only transformation you'll experience is a slightly better tan. There's absolutely nothing wrong with that. The umbrella drinks were probably delicious, and you got the break you needed.

Then there's the trip you build up in your mind as The Grand Adventure That Will Change Everything—only to discover it's just...fine. You saw some things. You ate some food. You took some photos. You feel refreshed but not reborn.

And then there are those unexpected trips where you go in with zero expectations and stumble upon moments that fundamentally shift how you see yourself and your place in the world.

After a decade as a travel content creator, I've found it's nearly impossible to predict which trips will affect you deeply. But I've noticed a pattern: the most meaningful travel insights aren't about the places themselves. They're about the contrast they create with your everyday life—and what that contrast reveals about how you really want to live.

Photo by Demian Gibbs

"Why are we all dressed like sad potatoes?"

I used to be that person who wore stilettos. Every. Single. Day.

It was the early 2000s in New York, peak Sex and the City era, and I genuinely believed that looking professional meant my feet had to hurt. When I think about all the miles I walked on Manhattan pavement in 3-inch heels, my arches start crying retroactive tears.

Fast forward to 2018. I was 41, with a husband and two kids, and while I'd ditched the daily stilettos, I still held this core belief that style required sacrifice. That if something was comfortable, it couldn't possibly be fashionable.

Then we went to Copenhagen.

Instead of our usual luxury hotel stay, we rented an apartment in a sleek Bjarke Ingels-designed building. We shopped at neighborhood markets, cooked our meals, and navigated the city by its famously efficient public transit.

But what blew my mind wasn't the architecture or the food. It was the women of Copenhagen.

Now, I've lived in New York and visited fashion capitals worldwide. But I swear, I've never seen women as effortlessly, practically stylish as the Danish. In temperatures that were already dipping toward winter, they had mastered something that seemed impossible to me: being absolutely weatherproof while looking like they'd stepped from the pages of a magazine.

These weren't just cute outfits that could tolerate a quick dash from taxi to restaurant. These were ensembles designed for women who would be biking across the city, standing on windy train platforms, and walking substantial distances—all while looking incredible.

It made me question everything I believed about the relationship between comfort and style.

In New York, there comes a point each winter when even the most stylish of us collectively surrender to the elements. The temperature drops below a certain threshold, and suddenly the sidewalks fill with people in identical black puffer coats ("are you from New York even?!") that make us all look like sad, shivering potatoes. Paired with salt-stained boots and whatever hat won't completely destroy our hair, this uniform silently announces: "It's too cold for fashion; we're just trying to survive now."

I had always accepted this dichotomy as fact. You could be warm or you could be stylish, but never both. Copenhagen showed me this was a false choice I'd been making for years.

Back home, I found myself staring at my winter wardrobe with new eyes. Why had I resigned myself to this binary? Why had I accepted that keeping warm meant looking like I'd given up on life?

This wasn't a profound philosophical breakthrough. I didn't return home, throw out my entire wardrobe, and transform into a Danish style icon. But it did shift something fundamental in how I approached getting dressed in winter. I invested in stylish weatherproof boots. I experimented with layering. I experimented with renting fun, colorful coats from Rent the Runway—a way to play with winter style without having to commit to owning a coat forever. I stopped reaching for the same shapeless puffer every time the temperature dropped below freezing.

The change wasn't just about clothes. It was about questioning an assumption so ingrained I hadn't even recognized it as a choice. And it made me wonder: what other false dichotomies was I accepting without question?

The Milan playground that made me question everything about American parenting

During our 22 Cities in 2022 project, we spent a week in Milan. One afternoon, we stumbled upon a neighborhood playground where our girls immediately joined the local children in play.

Despite the language barrier—the Italian kids speaking no English, our girls speaking no Italian—they quickly developed an elaborate system of gestures and signals to coordinate turns on the merry-go-round. No words needed, just the universal childhood language of "my turn next" pantomimes.

As I watched them play, something else caught my attention: the parents. Or rather, their conspicuous distance from the action.

In New York playgrounds, parents hover like military drones. We position ourselves at strategic vantage points, ready to swoop in at the first sign of trouble. We're constantly scanning for potential dangers, calling out warnings, practically holding our breath until playground time is over. "Not so high!" "Watch where you're going!" "Be careful on those stairs!"

And let's be honest—it's not just about preventing scraped knees. New York requires a certain level of vigilance that's baked into our DNA as locals here. That low-level awareness of your surroundings, the constant peripheral vision check for who's approaching—it's not paranoia, it's just part of raising kids in a complex urban environment where not every stranger has good intentions.

But here in Milan? The parents maintained what would be considered criminal distance by American standards. Many weren't even inside the playground but were sitting at a restaurant half a block away, sipping wine while occasionally glancing toward their children. A small fence separated the dining area from the playground, but the supervision was distinctly hands-off.

I'm cautious about cultural generalizations. Not every Italian parent is this relaxed, just as not every American parent hovers. But in this specific moment, the contrast was so stark it felt like I was watching parenting on another planet.

My immediate reaction? Judgment. "How can they be so casual? Don't they know all the terrible things that could happen?"

But as I watched the children play—confidently, capably, resolving their own minor conflicts without adult intervention—a more uncomfortable question surfaced: Was I the one who had it wrong?

My girls were growing up. Was my parenting style growing with them? Or was I still approaching them as if they were toddlers, even as they developed new capabilities?

This insight didn't prompt immediate action. I didn't return home and suddenly shove my kids out the door with a casual "See you at dinner!" But it planted a seed that slowly grew over the next three years into a fundamental shift in my approach.

I began looking for small opportunities to step back. Letting them walk to the corner store on their own to buy candy—while I kept a close eye from our brownstone stoop. Allowing them to walk ahead on city sidewalks. Eventually, teaching them to navigate public transportation.

By fall 2023, they were going to school completely on their own. The training wheels came off gradually—I spent three months walking them through every possible subway scenario, including what to do if they missed their stop or felt unsafe around someone.

The first day they went alone, I tracked them via Find My iPhone with the intensity of a spy satellite operator. Every red light they hit while walking had me convinced they'd been kidnapped. When they finally texted "We're at school!" I realized I'd been holding my breath for 30 minutes.

But they did it. And they did it again the next day, and the day after that.

There have been mishaps. Ella once missed our stop and somehow ended up in the far reaches of East New York. I aged five years in five minutes. But each time, I've been impressed by her resourcefulness in finding her way back. More importantly, she's been proud of herself for solving problems independently.

The transformation from 2022 to now has been remarkable. My daughters navigate New York with confidence I wouldn't have believed possible before that Milan playground moment.

What's even more remarkable is how this shift has changed our relationship. When I stopped seeing my primary role as protector, I created space to become something else: a guide, a confidante, a sounding board. We talk more now. They tell me things I don't think they would have if I were still monitoring their every move.

All because I saw parents doing things differently in a playground halfway around the world.

How Cabo revealed that entrepreneurship was slowly burning us out

Some travel experiences shake your foundation so profoundly that you return home a different person. My Cabo trip falls into this category—not because there's anything particularly revolutionary about a luxury resort in Mexico, but because of how starkly it contrasted with the life we had been living.

For context: Serge and I had been running our martial arts school for years. In rapid succession, we had opened a business, gotten married, had our first baby, then our second, all while quitting our day jobs to run the business full-time. The pace was relentless.

One day, we had the sobering realization that for three and a half years, we hadn't taken a single day off. Not a vacation day, not a sick day, not even a personal day. The business we had created to give ourselves freedom had instead become our prison.

This truth hit me like a physical blow. We had started a business to have more control over our lives, more flexibility, more freedom. Instead, we'd built ourselves a beautiful cage.

With a stash of accumulated credit card points, we booked first-class tickets to Cabo and reserved a suite at a luxury resort—our first trip as a family of four.

What happened there went far beyond relaxation.

Being removed from our daily environment revealed how disconnected we had become. At home, we operated like a well-choreographed production: I handled the day shift at the karate school from 9 to 5, while Serge worked the 1 to 9 schedule. He handled daycare dropoff, I managed pickup. I covered dinner and bedtime, all while managing staff and administrative work. We were like two ships passing in the night, trading off responsibilities with military precision, communicating mainly through logistics and schedules.

"Can you pick up milk on your way home?"

"Sean has a doctor's appointment at 3."

"I'll be late tonight, can you handle bedtime?"

Efficient? Yes. Fulfilling? Not even close.

In Cabo, without the business demands and domestic routines, we rediscovered each other. I noticed personality traits in my daughters that had been developing right under my nose—Sean's quick wit, Ella's deep empathy—qualities that were always there but that I had been too busy to fully appreciate.

What struck me most powerfully was how present we all felt. Not just physically in the same space (which was often true at home), but emotionally and mentally engaged with each other. We weren't just going through motions; we were truly connecting.

This realization hit me like a thunderbolt: This feeling of togetherness, of exploration and discovery, of being fully present—this was what I wanted more of in our lives. But how could we possibly recreate this when we returned to our demanding business?

The question lingered for months after our return. Gradually, an idea began forming. I noticed a gap in the travel media landscape: Family travel content focused almost exclusively on budget options, while luxury travel coverage rarely acknowledged families at all. But there were surely parents like us—those who had perhaps had children a bit later in life and were accustomed to a certain travel experience—who didn't want to sacrifice comfort and style just because they had kids.

That insight became Top Flight Family. What began as a blog exploring luxury family travel grew into a platform with over a million followers across YouTube, Instagram, and TikTok. It completely transformed our lives, eventually allowing us to close the martial arts school and pursue travel full-time.

Looking back, it's wild to think that one of the most successful chapters of my career emerged from a near-breakdown—from finally admitting that the "success" we had built was slowly killing us.

None of this would have happened without that Cabo trip creating enough distance from our daily lives for us to see clearly what wasn't working. Sometimes you need to physically remove yourself from your environment to recognize patterns you've been too close to observe.

From ephemeral insights to lasting change

The problem with travel revelations isn't having them—it's keeping them alive once you're back in familiar surroundings. That post-vacation clarity fades faster than your resort room key deactivates after checkout.

I can't tell you how many times I've returned from a trip full of inspired intentions—"I'm going to cook fresh meals every night like they do in Italy!" "I'm going to adopt that relaxed Scandinavian parenting style!"—only to find myself back in my old patterns within days.

The key is finding ways to transform those fleeting insights into meaningful changes before they evaporate. The approach depends on the scale of the revelation:

For small shifts:

Make immediate, concrete changes while your perspective is still fresh. After Copenhagen, I didn't overhaul my entire wardrobe, but I did invest in stylish weatherproof boots that week. The specific action itself might seem minor, but it serves as a physical reminder of the insight you want to preserve.

Maybe your version is buying a rice cooker after seeing how prevalent they are in Asia, or purchasing an espresso machine after falling in love with Italian coffee culture. These tangible changes help anchor the new perspective you gained.

For medium-impact realizations:

Implement changes gradually, especially for insights involving relationships, parenting, or deeply ingrained habits. After Milan, I didn't suddenly transform into a free-range parent overnight. Instead, I identified low-risk experiments to slowly increase my daughters' independence.

Be ready for discomfort. The first time my daughter took the subway alone, I was convinced I'd made a terrible mistake. I checked her location obsessively, texted for updates, and had at least three minor panic attacks. But each small success built confidence—both hers and mine—for the next step.

Progress wasn't linear. There were days I reverted to my helicopter tendencies, especially after hearing about some incident on the news. But having seen an alternative model in Milan gave me a reference point to return to when fear threatened to override reason.

For life-altering revelations:

Honor the insight—don't let it slip away in the chaos of returning to normal life. Journal about it, discuss it with trusted friends, give it the space to develop.

Ask yourself the hard questions: What specifically resonated about this experience? What does it reveal about what's missing in my current situation? What would alignment look like? What am I afraid would happen if I made a change?

For me, the Cabo revelation wasn't just "traveling is fun." It was "our current lifestyle is preventing us from truly connecting as a family." That distinction was crucial for what came next.

Identify the first meaningful step you can take—not necessarily a dramatic leap like quitting your job (I'm actually a strong proponent of keeping your day job while building something new on the side), but something substantial enough to create momentum.

For my travel content career, that first step was simply creating initial posts about luxury family travel and seeing if they resonated with an audience. I didn't immediately announce to the world that I was pivoting to a new career. I tested the waters, gathered feedback, and built gradually.

Set milestones you can control ("I'll post one TikTok per week for the next six months") rather than outcomes you can't directly influence ("I'll earn my silver YouTube play button by this time next year"). This keeps you moving forward even when external validation is slow to come.

Study people who've made similar transitions, not just for practical guidance but for reassurance that your path is possible. Remember: They weren't extraordinary people when they started; they simply took consistent action toward a clear vision. The woman whose business you admire was once exactly where you are now—staring at a blank page, wondering if her idea had merit.

The real souvenirs aren't things—they're perspectives

I used to bring home all the typical vacation mementos—refrigerator magnets, jewelry, local crafts that looked charming in their native context but somehow lost their magic in my Brooklyn apartment. My house slowly filled with stuff that was supposed to remind me of amazing experiences but mostly just collected dust.

Now I understand that the most valuable souvenirs aren't physical objects. They're the temporary shifts in perspective that travel creates—those brief windows where you can see your normal life through new eyes.

The magic isn't in the destinations themselves. Copenhagen, Milan, and Cabo didn't change me—they simply created enough distance from my regular life for me to see patterns and possibilities I was too close to notice before.

This is why even "ordinary" trips can spark extraordinary insights. It's not about how exotic the location is; it's about the contrast it creates with your everyday existence.

The next time you travel, instead of focusing on checking off attractions or taking the perfect Instagram photos, pay attention to moments that make you question your normal life. Notice what feels right when you're away from home that might be missing in your regular routine.

Is it the slower pace? The emphasis on meals as social experiences rather than functional refueling? The priority placed on beauty or nature or human connection?

These questions are your real souvenirs—and unlike that refrigerator magnet or puka shell necklace, they have the potential to transform your daily experience long after the trip ends.

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Have you ever returned from a trip and suddenly seen your everyday life differently? What’s something travel made you realize about the way you live—and did it lead to any lasting changes? Share your experience in the comments 👇

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Bring Carmen to your next event

Carmen Van Kerckhove is an author and keynote speaker whose work explores how technology, social class, and cultural shifts are reshaping work as we know it. Her upcoming book, The Slingshot Effect (Crown Currency), shows why pulling back isn’t a setback—it’s how every breakthrough begins.

Based in New York City, Carmen speaks at keynotes, conferences, leadership summits, and company retreats.

→ For speaking inquiries, contact info@topflightfamilymedia.com. Explore her signature talks here.

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