Family
The Vacation You Want to Take Right Now
Whatever you do, don't put this trip off.
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As my 87-year-old mom and I relaxed in lounge chairs on Vero Beach last November, she said something that made me laugh out loud. I don't remember exactly what it was — probably some inside joke we resurrected every so often — but we both giggled, reveling in the lighthearted moment of our just-the-two-of-us vacation. That's the thing about mother-daughter travel — you rarely recognize the magic while you're in it. We used to walk miles along the shore whenever we traveled. In recent years, our walks became shorter and less frequent, with more time spent side by side in those lounge chairs instead.
That Vero Beach trip turned out to be our last. My mom passed away in February at 88, just weeks before we were supposed to board a Caribbean cruise together. The ship sailed without us. And in the months since, I keep returning to the trips that did happen: the ones I planned, the ones she did and the ones where everything went sideways in the best possible way. Traveling with my mom changed the way I think about time, aging and what counts as a “big” trip.
We gradually fell into becoming travel companions. When I first got married, my husband, Kevin, and I sometimes vacationed with my parents. Later, when I had two boys, she'd join our family trips — an extra set of hands when they were small, a welcome presence at the dinner table. Somewhere along the way, the dynamic shifted. She became my go-to travel buddy — the one whose travel tastes mirrored mine. Botanical gardens, walkable downtowns, local restaurants, crafts festivals, community theater, working artists’ studios — we could spend an entire afternoon in a small coastal town and never run out of things to discover together.
Her trip planning, though, was a different story.
Once, Mom treated me to a long-weekend Caribbean cruise and handled all the planning. My boys, then two and five, stayed home with Kevin, who took a day off work so I could have a much-needed break. The only problem? She’d messed up our return date, which we didn’t discover until we were at sea. This was before I had a cell phone, so I called Kevin from our cabin phone, sweating the $7-a-minute charge as I explained how we were “stuck” at sea for an extra day. I was furious then, but later we laughed about it. I’d tease Mom for getting so caught up in the trivial details (Are you packing a sweater? What gown are you bringing for formal night?) that she missed the big one: when we were actually coming home. Trips don’t have to go smoothly to become the stories you’ll tell for the rest of your life. Sometimes the mishaps are what knit you together.
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I think about that cruise often, not because of the chaos, but because of what it revealed about her. She poured herself into the details that felt meaningful — making sure we were comfortable, making sure we looked lovely at dinner — and trusted that everything else would work out. It mostly did. And when it didn’t, we eventually laughed about it. That was her gift.
Another time, in the Bahamas, Mom was clowning for the camera and went to lie on a hammock. She totally lost her balance and flipped onto the sand. We both cracked up. That was so her — more interested in the laugh than the landing. She was like that everywhere we went, genuinely game for anything. She'd sip a craft beer at a local brewery even though she wasn't much of a drinker, try on absurd hats in a boutique just to be silly or wander into an art studio with the open curiosity of someone who had nowhere else to be. If your mom wants to try on ridiculous hats or flop into a hammock for a laugh, roll with it. Those are the moments you’ll replay long after you’ve forgotten which museum you visited.
By our Vero Beach trip, though, she needed a cane for longer distances. A fall a couple of years earlier had fractured three pelvic bones, and though she recovered, she moved differently afterward — slower, more careful. After a lifetime of being an independent, always-on-the-go woman, she was showing her age in a way I couldn't ignore. I found myself watching for curbs, gauging distances and offering my arm for support. The woman who had once dragged me onto cruise ships and through Caribbean ports now needed a steadying hand walking up stairs. But letting her set the pace turned out to be the greatest luxury of all, forcing me to truly be present.
Despite her health issues, Mom was still up for anything — we just took it at her pace. And slowing down wasn't a lesser version of travel. It turned out to be a quieter, more intentional one, the kind where you notice more, linger longer and sink into deeper conversations.
Which is why I want to say this plainly: if you have a mother you've been meaning to travel with, the time is now. The logistics might not be perfect. The trip doesn’t have to be life-changing. Book something small. The act of going, of choosing time together on purpose, is what changes you.
You just need to show up together, adopt a flexible mindset and stay curious. Let her obsess over what clothes you're packing. Slow down to match her pace. Call her. Book something. Go.
The cruise we never took sits quietly at the edge of my fresh grief, a blank page where one last adventure should have been. But actually, she still travels with me.
I still carry the memories we shared as well as the truths I discovered when it was just the two of us. I was surprised to find out that she never learned to ride a bike. That she and my dad had an intimate wedding ceremony with just a handful of friends and neither set of parents in attendance. And that she wished she’d traveled more.
Before she died, my mom made one request: “Sprinkle my ashes in every ocean when you travel, so I can keep seeing the world.” I think about that every time I pack a bag now, which includes a tiny vial of her ashes. She's not done going places.
Neither am I.
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