“But something still does not feel right. It would be like painting the walls of her life beige. It would be a safe choice, a comfortable choice that no one could fault her for, but it does mean that every day she would have to sit in her room and look at her beige walls and wonder what could have been if she had painted them bright yellow or pink. What if she had forgone paint entirely? Or better yet, what if there were no walls at all? Only sky, sunlight, salty water, fresh rain, and spring flowers and no one else around to comment on the paint color of the walls. That would be perfect, and that is why it is only a dream.”

—Sydney J. Shields in The Honey Witch

I felt something stirring inside me when I read these words on page 13 of the cozy fantasy book I’d gotten from the library. Yes, I’d thought. That’s how a life without travel, adventure and writing feels to me.

I know this isn’t true for everyone. Many women grow up longing to be mothers or climb the career ladder in a fitted suit jacket. People desire a cottage by the sea with ample time and materials to paint or lazy days in a ski lodge to read.

I want to explore.

Fitting, I suppose, that I work for a magazine with the same name.

In the last year, I’ve lost a lot. My hearing in my right ear. My cat. My mom lost her mobility for many months. It’s been tough. My deafness at higher frequencies is considered profound/severe. I’ve lost silence. Instead, I hear a constant blaring high-pitched ringing. It makes many things that I used to enjoy without a second thought difficult, or even impossible.

After my beloved cat Archer suddenly died, my mom fell and broke five bones (both her knee caps, her elbows and her nose). With her entire body out of commission and every limb in a cast, I watched as she resolutely relearned how to walk, bend her joints and heal her bones over two months in the hospital–while I was in the hospital myself, undergoing treatment in the hyperbaric oxygen chamber for SSHL and tinnitus.

My mom is incredibly strong. I am so proud to see her walking again. It was fantastic to visit Los Cabos, Mexico with her last week. It was her first time on a plane since she fractured her arms and legs, and even though it was different, she did wonderfully.

Travel, for both of us, is different now. She can no longer walk fast, tackle broken sidewalks or jump in the ocean. I can’t stay long in loud restaurants, I struggle to hear new friends and I wear a special ear plug due to my ruptured eardrum and the painful, agonizing infection that accompanies getting water in my ear.

Luckily, I don’t want to go to party places or noisy locations anymore. I’m okay with never going to another rock concert or drinking at a club again. On warm days and heated patios, I eat outside to avoid uncomfortable indoor acoustics. I feel good about setting boundaries and finding modifications that allow me to thrive despite my limitations, and I’m especially thankful for my friends and family who have been compassionate, understanding and steadfast in respecting my new accessibility requirements.

I’m so grateful that I can still travel. Yes, it’s different now. Because I am different. I am still me; I’m a new me.

This past week in Mexico, we rented a two-bedroom, two-bathroom Airbnb. We lazed by the pool in the sunshine, often the only ones on the rooftop with a peakaboo ocean view for hours in the morning. We woke up at 6:30am every day to watch the sunrise with our freshly brewed coffee.

We went into San Lucas to explore. I thought I wouldn’t go into the ocean, because the waves are very strong and I am not a good swimmer, but I wore my bikini underneath my onesie just to look cute. When we arrived, the water was calm, so I stripped off my jumpsuit and ran into the water at El Medano Beach. I swam in the warm salty waves, laughing and chatting with fellow travellers from Texas.

With our toes in the sand, we ordered a mango margarita and shrimp tacos at The Office. We randomly enjoyed a tequila tasting and met kind local women. We watched the sky darken behind the mountains while sipping happy hour craft beers at the rooftop Baja Brewing.

We took an Uber into San Jose for the Thursday Night Art Walk, where rows of artists displayed colourful canvases and craft makers sold soap and jewelry in the main square. We dined on pizza at an Italian restaurant where a singer with one of the best voices I’ve ever heard serenaded us with Ed Sheeran and Spanish songs.

The next day, our driver brought us back to San Jose, where we sat in an oasis drinking iced coffee and sharing a massive moist tres leches cake. We wandered the shops beneath rainbow flags before stopping at Playa Chileno, where hundreds of fish swam between my feet.

In the quiet moments, we read multiple books, tanned despite slathering on SPF 50 and rested beneath beautiful blue skies. We watched TV together in the evenings and went to bed early, sun-tired and happy.

I love travel. It colours my life. And despite not being able to live the way I used to, I am so grateful I can still travel and add vibrant splashes of colour to my days everywhere I go.

Tomorrow, I’ll fly to New York City for a travel media conference. I’m nervous to talk with new people who don’t know about my tiny hearing aid or the ringing that has changed so much of my life. But I can’t wait to spend three extra days exploring the city solo, just like I’ve always loved to do.

I’ll keep collecting multi-coloured stamps in my passport, and I know my walls won’t be beige.