Wander, Wonder, Write: Part Twelve

The Long Road Home

About This Series

Wander, Wonder, Write is a travel memoir in real time, documenting a journey across the world with my daughter.

It’s not a highlight reel or a guidebook. It’s a record of moments—messy, beautiful, imperfect moments—captured as we lived them. It’s a story about adventure and uncertainty, about laughter and exhaustion, about discovery and healing. Above all, it’s a story about learning how to show up fully, even when things don’t go according to plan.

Maybe especially then.

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Acceptance Is The Answer

I don’t know why some things are blocked to me.

I don’t know why I can see something so clearly—the mountain right in front of me, the path I want to take, the vision of the life that I want—and yet not be permitted to have those things.

The past several days have been rough.

What had been a clear, simple path home after two weeks of successful and joyful travel with my daughter has unraveled into a slow-motion debacle.

Flights were cancelled.

We sought other options.

They were cancelled too.

Plans were made and remade, and each time, those plans fell apart.

Twice now, we have had to sprint down unfamiliar roads with our luggage, running half a mile under a heavy sky, only to watch the bus pull away without us.

Twice now, we have been left standing on the side of the road, breathless, wondering what comes next.

With each adjustment, with each new blow, my commitment to maintaining a positive, adventurous spirit has been chipped away—small pieces breaking off with every canceled flight, every closed door.

After seventy-two hours of constant uncertainty, of rising hopes and fresh disappointments, I am emotionally raw, physically exhausted, and spiritually empty.

I have been in this situation many times in my life. Each time is a lesson in acceptance.

I remember living for nearly 13 months in the Syrian desert, surviving on MREs, going 30–45 days without showers, living without consistent power or internet. When the time finally came for my team to fly home, we checked in to the flight line, only to be told the plane was broken. We’d have to come back at 4am the next morning to try again.

With nothing left but my backpack and nowhere to belong, I wandered the streets of Al Asad airbase in west central Iraq, looking for something to do. I worked out until I couldn’t lift my arms. I sat at the MWR lounge, trying to stay awake. Boredom turned into creativity. I hatched an idea for a story. A few hours later, I had characters, dialogue, a thickening plot. It was the first time I had ever tried creative writing outside of school assignments.

By the next morning, I wasn’t even upset when they told us the plane was still broken. I had a new blossoming hobby to fill my time.

This happened for 11 days straight.

Each day, I watched my chance to go home vanish. Each day, I had to accept that I had no control. By the time we finally boarded the plane, I had written nearly 85,000 words. The story wasn’t very good, and I never finished it. But a dream was born from that 11-day delay—the dream of being a writer.

I glimpsed a part of myself I hadn’t known existed, and that glimpse has motivated me to continue writing ever since. So there was a bright side to that particular delay.

Not every block or delay produces something beautiful, though.

I’ve sprinted through airports, only to arrive breathless and watch the last flight of the day lift off without me. I’ve slept on cold airport floors with nothing but my sport coat for a blanket. I’ve sat trapped on runways for six hours only to have the plane turn back to the gate.

These are simply the costs of being a frequent traveler. Airplanes are machines. And machines sometimes break. Missions change. Weather intervenes.

So why, today, is it so hard for me to adjust? Why does this string of setbacks sting so badly?

Maybe it’s fear. Fear that this is the beginning of something worse I can’t control.

Maybe it’s the exhaustion of two long weeks on the road—surrounded by strangers, hearing a foreign language, sleeping on unfamiliar beds, carrying the weight of every suitcase.

Maybe it’s simply that I’m human. I want to believe I can control outcomes.

Maybe it is something even simpler than that. Maybe I am just frustrated because this isn’t a compelling story, and all I really want is to tell a good story.

I began this series with ambitions to journal across continents, to capture the unfolding adventure of traveling the world with my daughter. And until now, things have gone well. We’ve shared grand adventures. We’ve tasted new cultures. We’ve set foot in unfamiliar lands. And more than anything, we’ve bonded in ways that are both profound and enduring.

I have tried to write about these things from a place of vulnerability, because this trip was never meant to be a highlight reel or a thin, FOMO-inducing Instagram story. This trip is the culmination of years of healing. It is the privilege that comes from doing the hard work—of breaking, rebuilding, and choosing to live more honestly and fully. It is an investment not just in my daughter’s future, but in my own, as I endeavor to live with authenticity, presence, and heart.

And now, it seems, the final chapter of this saga is not a triumphant crescendo, but a sad, heavy sigh.

And that frustrates me—because I want a satisfying ending. A good last chapter. I want a story where the struggles are redeemed, where the good guy gets the girl and rides off into the sunset. I want this series to be remembered for its wonder, not for how it stumbled at the end.

But beneath that wish, I can feel it—attention, my old nemesis—waiting in the wings, whispering doubts, stirring up old fears. What am I if I am not admired? If no one cares? What does it mean if this story fades away quietly, without applause? Why do I keep staying up late, even when I’m bone-tired, pouring out pieces of my heart into a handful of words, hoping that maybe they will land somewhere, be seen, be understood?

As we ride back into Tokyo for a few more days of waiting before we can try again to fly home, my daughter asks if she can text her mother. I see it then—the first truly sad look on her face this entire trip.

I just really miss Mom, she says, her eyes heavy with longing.

A few hours later, I hear something faintly through her headphones and ask what she’s listening to.

I asked Mom to record herself playing the piano and singing, she says. I was listening to it.

Oh? I ask, careful to keep my voice light, not to make it a big deal.

Yeah, she says as we weave through the crowded subway, dragging our bags toward yet another hotel. I was trying to think of ways I could feel close to Mom. And hearing her sing was the best way I could think of.

And there, in the middle of the station, I cry in public for the hundredth time on this trip.

This kid has been an absolute trooper. Her adventurous spirit has been on full display throughout this journey. Even in moments when I expected disappointment or frustration, she has shown tremendous resolve and emotional resilience.

But we all have breaking points.

And this is one of those moments when I have to remember something important—both for her, and for myself.

I don’t need to pretend to be strong right now.

Not for her.

Not for you.

I didn’t start writing this series to prove that I have it all figured out. I’m no one’s counselor or guide.

I write because this is how I heal. Because this is who I am.

And of all the things I long for—more than any ambition or striving or accomplishment—I want you to know me.

I want you to see me.

I have learned that the fastest way I can trip up and fall flat on my face is when I pretend like I have it all together. So now, when I am frustrated, emotionally and physically exhausted, now is the time that I lean into my own weakness. Now is the time that I accept my own flaws. Now is the time when I show you, her, and myself, how to love myself, because it is when I am weakest and most vulnerable that I am most open to receiving love.

And so I think I’ll end it there.

We’ll get home eventually, and there will probably be some adventures along the way. Maybe I’ll write about them, maybe I won’t. Right now, all I have to offer is me.

Not a polished ending. Not heroic resilience.

Just myself.

A flawed and damaged human being with a story to tell.

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About the Author

ES Vorm, PhD is a writer, father, traveler, and recovering perfectionist. A combat veteran and former aviator, he spent years chasing achievement before learning that real strength comes from surrender, not control. Today, he writes to heal, to remember, and to connect—with himself, with others, and with the world around him. He believes the best stories aren’t the polished ones, but the ones told with an open heart.