Lately, I’ve been pondering what truly makes travel – and life abroad – enjoyable. It’s not comfort. It’s perspective. A willingness to sit with discomfort when it arises, opening yourself to new ideas and experiences that quietly reshape you.

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Even something as simple as a walk to the bakery – something that would barely register as noteworthy at home – can feel surprisingly unfamiliar when you’re travelling. It might be that the environment is so far removed from what you’re used to, or that the choices are either overwhelming or oddly limited. There may be items you don’t recognise at all, and when you add in a language barrier, what should be straightforward can quickly feel stressful. What’s interesting, though, is that two people can have the exact same experience and walk away feeling completely differently about it. More often than not, the difference comes down to perspective.

Just the other day, while walking to my local bakery in Cairo, it would have been easy to focus on the broken and uneven footpath, the crowded street, the noise, and the general sense of chaos that can come with daily life here. But when I looked up instead, I noticed the leafy-lined streets, the way the light filtered through the trees, and the fact that I was standing in a place that, not so long ago, would have felt unimaginably far from what I once called normal. I was in the exact same location, but as my perspective shifted, so did my experience – and with it, my mood. That small shift is exactly what travel often calls for – and sometimes it comes with a bit of discomfort.

This was the moment I deliberately shifted my perspective.

I’ve lived in a number of different countries – China, the UAE, the USA, Australia, and most recently Egypt—and I’ve visited even more. Every experience came with its own challenges: language barriers, cultural differences, small but cumulative parenting hurdles, and moments of sensory overload. In each place, there were moments of discomfort and times when I questioned our decisions. But I’ve come to see that this isn’t a sign that travel isn’t working. It’s simply what change feels like. Each of us has a comfort zone, whether we’re consciously aware of it or not – a place where routine and familiarity feel safe. Step outside it, especially for an extended period, and there’s often an internal alarm that quietly warns us things feel different – and therefore risky. Our central nervous system feels a bit like the old TV show Lost In Space, with the robot screaming, “Danger, Danger! Danger, Will Robinson.”

If you want to feel uncomfortable, then try crossing the street in Cairo – it’s a free for all.

Beyond that initial discomfort, if you can stay with it rather than retreat, there is space for something else to emerge. Growth, connection – with yourself and with others – and a perspective that simply isn’t available when everything feels easy and familiar. There is also room for wonder, often arriving in the most unexpected ways. But here’s where it gets even more real for me: when discomfort collides with parenting, especially in an inter-abled family. Travel doesn’t just stretch your comfort zone – it amplifies every family member’s, turning solo growth moments into shared lessons in co-regulation and resilience.

None of this removes the discomfort entirely, but it changes how your family navigates it together. Of course, discomfort is one thing when it’s just you – it’s another when it ripples through a family.

As a family, we make sure that we prioritise having regulatory activities such as animal and sensory experiences. This helps with co-regulation and ensuring the whole family has a successful trip.

One of the most interesting things travel has taught me, particularly with our inter-abled family, is how often challenge and beauty exist side by side. You can feel the frustration of plans gone awry or an unfamiliar meal while, at the same time, taking in scenery that quietly reminds you how far from ordinary your day has become.

It’s something most parents recognise, but when you’re travelling – already outside your comfort zone, without your usual village, navigating constant change, co-regulation, and sensory needs – those contrasts feel sharper. The hardest moments are often woven tightly together with the most rewarding ones.

I experienced this almost profoundly in Paris, late last year. Paris had been on my bucket list ever since I first started learning French in high school. I fell in love with the language, the stories, the culture, and desperately wanted to make my way there. Only to find myself in Paris with a very tired, cranky, dysregulated child.

As the day began, I was lost in the wonder of it all. I had to pinch myself sitting on the open-top bus, taking in sights I’d only dreamed of. I woke up that morning in a surreal, childlike happiness, feeling utterly thrilled that little ole me – a small-town country girl – was really here in Paris, sharing it with my family.

Reality crept in quickly in the form of my daughter’s grumblings and discomfort. After long trains the past two days – from Castiglione della Pescaia to Milan, then Milan to Paris following morning wanders around the Duomo and Leonardo’s Museum – her energy was completely depleted. She didn’t have the boost I carried from finally reaching a place that had called me for a quarter of a century.

Paris had been on my bucket list for so long that it almost felt surreal visiting the landmarks I’d read and dreamed about. All I wanted to do was bask in Paris’ glory.

In my head, all the thoughts swirled – it would have been easy to let her mood sour mine, thinking she was giving me a hard time instead of having a hard time herself. So I took deep breaths, opened myself up to seeing things from her perspective, and noted she was struggling with all of the changes. Yes, she saw Paris’s beauty, loved the Eiffel Tower and the double-decker bus (the part she’d anxiously awaited), but her overloaded system was hijacked, finding it hard to process everything.

When I shifted my perspective, got comfortable with the discomfort, and helped ease hers, we were able, together, to appreciate the beauty.

Comfort, I’ve learned, isn’t what makes travel – or life abroad – meaningful. Perspective does.

It doesn’t eliminate the challenges, but it changes how they’re experienced, and sometimes that shift is enough to turn something stressful into something quietly transformative. Whether it’s navigating a crowded street, a long travel day, or a family member’s dysregulation, perspective can make all the difference.