Midlife travel: stop saving the good stuff for later

Five years, eight countries, Finland. Singapore. Iceland. Netherlands. Serbia. Greece. New Zealand. And later this month, Japan.

When I write that list down, two feelings arrive at once. The first is quiet joy, because each of those names holds a memory I would not trade. The second is closer to awkwardness, maybe even embarrassment. Who am I to have all that? Shouldn’t the money have gone somewhere sensible, like the bathroom and kitchen renovation that’s been overdue for longer than I’d care to admit?

Then another question tends to answer back. Who am I not to? Life comes with a hell of a lot of mishaps and missteps, mixed in with the tiny miracles we meet along the way. I’ve come to believe the things that make us feel happy, alive and human are worth fighting for.

But I don’t want to pretend travel is something everyone gets to choose. For most people, it isn’t.

Travel is a privilege, and it’s worth saying so

Being able to travel takes money and time off. It takes a body that can cope with long-haul flights, and usually someone at home who can feed the dog. It also takes a passport that opens doors. As Australians we’re unusually lucky here. We can arrive in a huge number of countries with little more than a booking, while people from many other nations face months of paperwork, steep fees and the real chance of being turned away.

Plenty of women my age don’t have these advantages, and many have worked every bit as hard as I have. Effort and opportunity are not handed out in equal measure.

I don’t think the answer is to hide the trips or apologise for them. I think the answer is to own it. To notice it. To travel with respect rather than entitlement, and to remember that the waiter in Athens and the cleaner at the Reykjavik guesthouse are living full lives that don’t exist to decorate my holiday.

Privilege named honestly sits far more comfortably than privilege pretended away.

Some of us finally have the money. Why won’t we spend it on ourselves?

I know this isn’t every woman’s story. The numbers still show Australian women typically retire with less super than men, which means plenty of us reach midlife with less, not more. Career breaks, caring, divorce and part-time years all leave their mark on the balance.

But for some of us, midlife is the first time the numbers start working in our favour. The career has some seniority in it. The mortgage is smaller than it was. For the first time in decades, there’s a little left at the end of the month that isn’t already spoken for.

And yet, watch what so many of us do with that margin. We top up the kids’ house deposits. We cover the family dinners. We renovate the bathroom for a resale value we may never need. (Yes, I see the irony. Mine is still waiting.) We spend generously on everyone, then hesitate, wallet half open, when the purchase is only for us.

I understand the instinct. Many of us grew up with mothers who went without so we could have more. Thrift was how they showed love. But there’s a difference between being careful and being self-erasing, and a lot of midlife women have drifted into the second without noticing.

If you’ve been sensible for the last few decades, you’re allowed to spend the next few being a little less so.

Why travel matters more in the second half

Here’s what five years and eight countries have taught me. Travel isn’t only about the places. It's about who you get to be while you’re in them. Finland was where I first understood that quiet and calm can be a kind of wealth.

Singapore reminded me how good it feels to be curious, wandering into the city’s nooks with no particular plan. The colour. The street food eaten while fighting a losing battle with the humidity. And a bus driver who was quite openly enamoured with my blonde hair.

Iceland made me feel small. In the best way. Fire and ice. Waterfalls in their thousands. The northern lights moving so gracefully overhead that all I could do was stand there. Wide-eyed. Mesmerised. Then the glacier. The crunch of ice underfoot with every step. A little elated. A little terrified.

The Netherlands was pure fun. Wandering the canals in Amsterdam. Admiring the tall, narrow canal houses, leaning into each other like old friends. Cocktails that went down far too easily. One questionable cookie. (We'll leave it there.) Nothing profound. Just laughter, and the reminder that not every trip has to change you. Some are simply for joy.

Serbia gave me warmth. Big hugs. Home and family. Road trips through mountains and wild country so beautiful it felt barely touched. Long tables. And the sense that hospitality is something people carry in their souls.

Greece gave me a striking collision of ancient history and island beauty. Standing on the Acropolis. Wandering the streets of Athens in a sea of tourists. Then the islands. Old stone against the deep blue of the Aegean. And a reminder that slowing down is a skill. Absorbing. Noticing. Not just ticking things off a bucket list.

And New Zealand, so close to home, showed me that adventure doesn’t always need a long-haul flight, and that play and wonder still matter. Wandering through Hobbiton, peering into one round green door after another, I felt about nine years old again.

None of those trips fixed my life. All of them widened it. I came home each time a little less certain about things I’d assumed, and a little more certain about what I value. That isn’t indulgence. In midlife, when it’s so easy to shrink into routine, it becomes maintenance.

Permission to flex

So here is my case for flexing. Not the showy kind, with designer luggage and a curated feed. I mean flexing as in stretching a muscle you haven’t used in a while. The one that says this money is mine, I earned it, and I’m choosing to spend some of it on being alive. While I’m alive.

We’ve been sold the idea that travel is a reward you collect at the end. In retirement. Once the super statement gives you permission. I would rather not wait that long. That might mean Japan. It might mean a week in Tasmania, or a few more day trips closer to home. The train through the Rockies I’ve been dreaming about since my twenties. A frolic through the Swiss Alps. Or finally making it to the top of Mount Kosciuszko before the osteoarthritis in my knees gets the final say.

The destination matters far less than the decision. And the desire to step outside your everyday. To see. Hear. Taste. Feel. Something different. Something new.

Our health, our energy and our freedom won’t hold at this exact level forever. That isn’t gloomy, just honest. Right now, plenty of us have the means and the knees. What we’re short on is self-permission.

So give yourself permission. Stop saving the good stuff for later. Later has a habit of not turning up. Where are you going first? No passport required.