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Some people are all about the destination.

You know the type—the ones who want to fast-forward through everything else, skip the buildup, skip the process, skip the mess, and just land straight in the picture-perfect postcard moment.

But me? I’m in it for the whole ride. Every bumpy, delayed, chaotic, magical moment of it.

I love the journey. I mean really love it. The cab ride to the airport where I silently judge the driver’s music choices even as I watch him watch me through the rearview mirror. The check-in counter where someone always seems to be arguing with the airline about excess baggage (and many times that someone is me).

The slow shuffle through security, even as I battle that sneak who tries to steal my tray and fails, and then when I freely offer my hard-won tray to that 68-year-old woman who is traveling by plane for the first time in her life. The overpriced and bad airport coffee and water bottles. The guilt-filled chocolate purchase you absolutely should not consume and the Tequila for your family member who should not be drinking at duty-free.

And then there’s that deeply human art of people-watching—envying the businessmen striding purposefully; rolling your eyes and silently thanking yourself for being single when you see families herding children like sheep; outwardly judging but mooning inside at honeymooners clinging to each other like velcro; and praying for a clothes pin to clip your nose at the occasional barefoot passenger who really should not be barefoot.

I also love the boarding announcements, the chaos of gate changes, and yes—even the plasticky-looking airline food that somehow tastes the same on every flight, no matter which part of the world I’m flying over and whatever cuisine it claims to be. Indian, Italian, Mexican…they all look and taste the same. I love-hate the aching feet and swollen ankles, the clumsy aisle stretches, the weird conversations with strangers, the long layovers where I always seem to bump into the same Sri Lankan janitor at Frankfurt airport or get rescued by the kind Pakistani security officer at Heathrow who fast-tracks me when I’m minutes away from missing my connection to Charlotte.

And then comes the destination.

Ooh, the thrill of arriving somewhere new. That delicious rush of a new place hitting all your senses at once—the smells, the sounds, the skyline. The joy of wandering unfamiliar streets, trying new food, decoding public transport, fumbling through foreign languages, and soaking in the local quirks. The museums, the murals, the architecture, the café tucked into an alleyway, the tiny bookstore with a cat sleeping in the window. The thrill of wandering around like a lost tourist who loves the discovery and the sheer delight at being mistaken for a local until I open my mouth and mess it up completely.

But here’s the thing: I love all of it because I don’t see the journey as something to just “get through.” I see it as part of the story. The messy, maddening, magical, in-between moments are the story. And I am also not someone who dismisses the destination just because we’re told it’s “only the journey that counts.”

No.

To me, they’re both equally important.

And that applies to life too, doesn’t it? The rough patches, the detours, the delays, the people we meet along the way who help us, annoy us, teach us something, or just pass through our life briefly but leave a memory anyway.

It’s about the awkward years, the late-night self-doubt, the random adventures, the side quests, the messy middle, the people who showed up just when you needed them most—even if it was just to help you carry your suitcase up the stairs.

But also, life is about milestones. The big, beautiful, hard-earned moments. The dream job we fought for. The first home we bought after making so many sacrifices along the way. And the smugness we felt deep inside when we bought the second house. Why? Because we could!

Announcing to anyone who would listen that we have now travelled to 53 countries and counting. The best friend who became an ideal husband. The glorious wedding celebration that brought people together. The baby whose arrival changed how we looked at the world. The hard-fought and hard-earned promotion that was the ultimate validation. The personal goals we chased for years and finally reached.

The contentment of a chapter well closed and the thrill of a new one beginning.

Life is not just the messy middle or the shining peak—it’s both. One wouldn’t feel as rich, as satisfying, without the other.

So, no, I don’t want to skip ahead and reach my destination sooner. I want to feel and experience every aspect of the ride, bad train loos and all. But I also, eventually, want to arrive at that brand new place, whether it’s Antarctica or the next phase of my life.

I want them both. Equally and passionately.

What about you? Are you a journey person or a destination person? Or are you like me, and want them both? Let me know and let’s talk about it!

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