The Red Flag of Rigidity

I have noticed subtle red flags in travel over the years. These are not dramatic personality flaws or ethical lapses; they are posture flags. They are the little signals that tell me whether someone will be expanded by a journey or quietly extinguished by it. I have seen them in retreat guests. I have seen them in strangers in airport lounges. And if I am honest, I have seen every single one of them in myself. Especially this week.

Nepal was supposed to be next. I could already feel it: the crisp Himalayan air, the sharp relief of altitude, and the simple rhythm of putting one foot in front of the other. I was craving the mental clarity that only mountains bring. And if we are being completely honest, I am over the beach. There. I said it. It is too much tropical paradise. Please insert mountains immediately. I know how it sounds. It sounds absurd and wildly privileged. It is privileged, but it is also my current truth.

I have spent the last month in 40∘C heat with humidity so thick you could carve it. At this stage of life, I have lost interest in the "tropical glow." I am currently at the point where I am sweating through the layers of my soul, and my hair has taken on a life of its own that I no longer recognize. There is no amount of linen in the world that can withstand this level of damp. I am not dewy; I am a liquid. I am one humid afternoon away from trying to trade my left kidney for a walk-in freezer and a heavy wool sweater.

My husband was set to meet me in Kathmandu, flying from Toronto via Dubai. With the current geopolitical tension in the Middle East, we paused. His flight was cancelled. There were other options, including stressful and forced rerouting. We probably could have made it work. And that is where the first red flag showed up: the urge to cling to the original plan simply because it was the original plan. Years ago, I would have forced it. I would have found a loophole, minimized the risk, and told myself it would be fine. When you are younger, changing plans feels like defeat. It feels like losing.

Living in Botswana cured me of that instinct. I once spent an entire day walking between government offices (4 that all seeminly did the same things) trying to submit residency paperwork. "No, mma, the next office”. Another block. "No, mma, the next office”. Then back again. I had papers in hand and heat rising off the pavement, yet there was no urgency from anyone but me. When I finally submitted everything, I was told I would need to check a literal corkboard daily for months to see if I had been approved. A corkboard. That was the day I realized something humbling: the world does not reorganize itself around your expectations. You either align with reality, or you exhaust yourself fighting it.

So this week, instead of forcing Nepal, we asked a different question: Given what is, what is wise? The answer was to cancel. After days of reworking flights, sitting on hold, and moving pieces around like a chessboard I do not actually control, we decided to meet in the Philippines instead. It is not the mountains I was craving. It is another beach, but it is still moving. It is still a reunion. I was chatting with my best friend about the disappointment, and she used a phrase that stopped me: Grief and Gratitude.

I am holding both. I have grief for the mountains and for the vision of watching my husband take his first steps into the Himalayas. And I have gratitude for the safety of a Canadian passport and the ability to pivot rather than endure. But the grief goes deeper. There is a heaviness in witnessing what is unfolding in parts of the world right now. There is instability, fear, and conflict that is not elective. We are recalculating itineraries; others are recalculating safety. We are choosing alternate beaches; others are navigating the consequences of war.

Travel, when done consciously, does not just expand your horizons; it expands your compassion. It reminds us that the world is layered, fragile, and interconnected. There is a phrase people say in moments like this: "Everything happens for a reason." Often, that feels like spiritual bypassing. It feels like a way to soothe ourselves too quickly. But travel has taught me that meaning is not handed to you in the moment; it reveals itself later. The rerouted flight or the cancelled trek often becomes the redirection you did not know you needed.

The real red flag in travel, and in life, is not disappointment. It is rigidity. It is the belief that if the original vision dissolves, the entire experience is ruined. The younger version of me equated control with safety. The woman I am now understands that adaptability is safety. You do not control geopolitics. You do not control airspace. You control how you meet the moment.

That is the G&G way. We build elasticity. We stretch our nervous systems. We practice humility. And that posture follows you home into your business, your marriage, and your aging. The pivot is not a failure. The pivot is the practice. The mountains will wait. The woman you become during the pivot will not.

This is also why I believe so deeply in small, intentional group travel for women. When you move through unpredictable landscapes together, you practice elasticity in community. You watch other women regulate themselves. You borrow steadiness from each other. You learn that discomfort does not equal danger. You experience that plans can change without everything falling apart. You do not just gain passport stamps. You gain internal range. The landscapes are beautiful, but the real terrain we are navigating is internal. And that terrain is much easier to cross when you are not doing it alone.

The pivot is always easier with a community that knows how to hold the steady line. If you are looking for a space to stretch your internal range and explore the world with intention, join our waitlist for the next G&G Adventure. Let's navigate the terrain together.

Stay elastic,

Penny