No Juan Is An Island

It has been nearly four years since I felt the salt air of Bohol, and six long years since I spent three transformative months navigating the winding streets of Europe. For most, the world stopped because of a pandemic. For me, the world stayed paused because of a much more personal battle. A progressive eye condition has stolen the sight in one eye and, with it, the career and lifestyle I once knew.

As someone who has navigated 50+ countries and 70+ Philippine provinces, traveling was never just a hobby. It was my form of therapy and my heartbeat. Now, navigating a world that feels smaller and more blurred, I find myself looking backward to find the pieces of me I’ve lost.

When you lose your sight, you don’t just lose a sense; you lose your sense of place. I view traveling as a “reset and recharge” button, being grounded has left my heart and soul in a state of chaos. But as I sit in this forced stillness, I find myself tracing the maps of my memory, cataloging the things I miss most.

The Adrenaline of the Departure
There is a specific chemical shift that happens the moment you lock your front door and head for the airport. It’s a mix of jitters and pure joy. I miss that adrenaline rush—the humming energy of a boarding gate and the way the world looks through a plane window. It’s the feeling that anything is possible and that, for a few days or months, the mundane rules of “normal life” simply don’t apply.

The Freedom of Getting Lost
There is a paradox in travel: you often find yourself most clearly when you have no idea where you are. I miss the sense of freedom that comes with unfamiliar spaces. I used to love the thrill of an accidental detour in a foreign city—turning a corner to find a hidden bakery or a quiet piazza not mentioned in any guidebook. In my current life, “unfamiliarity” feels like a threat; in travel, it felt like a playground.

The Magic of Strangers
I miss the brief, flickering connections with people I will never see again. Whether it was a local in Bohol sharing a story about the hills or a fellow backpacker in a European hostel sharing a meal, meeting strangers reminded me of the vastness of human experience. There is a beautiful vulnerability in talking to someone who doesn’t know your history, your diagnosis, or your struggles—they just know you as the person sitting across from them.

The Double Discovery
Traveling is never just about seeing a new monument; it’s about discovering new things about yourself. Every new place I visited peeled back a layer of my own identity. I learned what I valued, what I could tolerate, and what made me weep with awe. Without the mirror of the world to look into, I sometimes feel like I’ve lost sight of who I am. I miss the “me” that was constantly evolving with every border crossed.

Feeling Truly Alive
Perhaps what I miss most is the version of myself that was fearless. I miss the realization that I could do things I never thought possible—navigating complex train systems in a language I didn’t speak or trekking through rugged terrain. In those moments, I didn’t just exist; I felt vibrant. I felt capable. I felt alive.

I don’t know if my condition will ever allow me to navigate a foreign terminal or a crowded street market again. The anxiety is real, and the limitations are heavy. But even with one eye, I am trying to keep my internal vision focused on hope. I pray that someday, I will find a way to get back on track. The world is still out there, and I’m not ready to stop seeing it—even if I have to learn to see it in a whole new way.