My wife and I have always been travel buddies.
We started flying around the country in 2010,
and outside it in 2011.
Asia. Australia. Europe.
The United Kingdom. The United States.
Travel became muscle memory.
We had momentum.
Ten-year multiple-entry visas stamped confidently on our passports.
Strong legs for long walks that began at sunrise
and ended with sore feet and quiet satisfaction.
A wardrobe of trench coats and windbreakers,
each tied to a season, a city, a version of ourselves.
Airports felt like extensions of home.
Flights were something to look forward to, not manage.
Then the pandemic arrived.
Borders closed.
Planes disappeared.
What we had were walking-tour videos of New York, Paris, Tokyo.
Muted volumes. Paused screens.
Watching other people move while we stayed still.
Fast forward to today.
We are ready to fly again.
Outside the country.
With our child.
For the first time.
And it feels different.
From two suitcases to three.
From hands-free to holding a cabin-size stroller.
From signature bags to a full childcare carry-on.
From excitement about the flight
to concern about how it will go for him.
I still feel the familiar thrill
when I see the aircraft at the gate.
But it is quieter now,
layered with something heavier.
I wonder about cabin pressure on small ears.
About turbulence.
About sleep.
About comfort.
I realize travel is no longer about
how far we can go
or how much we can see.
It is about how safe he feels.
How calm we remain.
How we carry not just luggage,
but responsibility.
This first flight is not about destinations,
visas, or future posts.
It is about watching a child
see clouds for the first time.
About holding a small hand during takeoff.
About silently hoping
the world we once explored so freely
will be kind to him.
We used to travel to feel alive.
Now, we travel
to introduce life to the world.
And maybe
that is the real upgrade.