The first time I flew on a plane was when I was three years old. The flight was from Taiwan to Canada, where I would be moving just three years later. Despite not having any memories of the flight or remembering anything about the trip, really, this moment changed my life.

This flight was the first of multiple back-and-forth trips across the globe to see my family, trips I still look forward to every chance I get. I have learned to cherish my travels—whether far or near—and hold the memories dear to my heart, especially when the COVID-19 pandemic grounded me in one place. Without these memories, I simply wouldn’t be who I am. Without the moments of travel to strengthen my bond with my family, I cannot say that I would be as close to them as I am now.

When we first moved to Canada, we couldn’t return back to Taiwan for three years. It wasn’t until I was nearly nine years old—equipped with choppy bangs and impressive English skills—that I got to return to my birthplace. Sitting in the humid-May heat with my grandma, who raised me until we left, I can still remember the childlike joy I felt as I bothered my jetlagged parents on the couch.

When most people think of travel, they may think of vacations to tropical resorts and a shopping-spree trip. While those kinds of trips are fun, travel is so much more than that—it’s a way to immerse yourself in culture and return to somewhere familiar or visit somewhere new. Connection, recollection, reaffirmation; that’s what travel means to me.

Travelling means a promise to return home, and for some, the inability to.

I recognize that the ability to travel is a luxury and something not to be taken for granted. Whether it be going back home or venturing out into a new place, factors like cost and safety inhibit many from having this privilege. These are the nuances of travel that are often shielded by its glamour.

As I’m sitting here writing this editorial, phone propped on my desk on a four-hour video chat with my parents back in B.C., I am reminded of little me, waiting at a snowy bus stop with my mother after school—her being afraid to let me sleep in the cold. I am reminded of 3 a.m. jet-lagged breakfasts from my trips back to Taipei, reunion hugs and tearful goodbyes.

Sounds of my mother weeping in our living room as she talks to my sick grandfather over the phone—all the way on the other side of the world with nothing but a spotty international phone connection—are ingrained into my mind. I think of how my parents left everyone they knew and the lives they’d built to start over.

I guess, in some nuanced, poetic way, The Travel Issue is a love letter to my parents. It’s a token of my appreciation and gratitude for all their hard work and the sacrifices they made to create a life for the three of us.

But it is also an homage to everyone who has endured bumpy road trips and frustrating plane delays to get to their destination. I hope reading this issue will bring you back to your cherished memories or help you learn about a perspective outside your own.

Without further ado, here is The Travel Issue.