Reading · Pack Light Live Full with Carmen Van Kerckhove

You know that feeling when you're at a dinner party and everyone's trying to one-up each other with their travel stories? The backpacker who lived with monks in Thailand. The foodie who discovered a hidden gem restaurant in Naples that "no tourists know about." The adventure seeker who casually mentions climbing Kilimanjaro "for the sunrise views."

And there you are, thinking about how much you enjoyed your all-inclusive resort in Cancun last year—how the staff remembered your name, how you read three novels by the pool, how you didn't set an alarm for seven glorious days.

Suddenly, your perfect vacation feels... inadequate. Basic. Somehow less valid.

I was at a travel conference almost ten years ago, when I first began my career as a travel content creator. I didn't know anyone, was completely green, and found myself in a conversation with two other travel bloggers—let's call them Vanessa and Jess.

Vanessa had been in the industry for years and had that quiet confidence that comes with experience. She carried herself with an ease that said she was comfortable in her own skin, not trying to impress anyone.

Jess, on the other hand, was newer like me. But where I felt out of my depth, she projected an almost aggressive certainty about everything. You could feel her eagerness to prove herself, to be taken seriously in this room of established creators.

The conversation turned to tourist attractions, and Vanessa mentioned—very casually, not judgmentally—that she typically avoids the major landmarks when possible. "They're just usually not my thing," she said with a shrug. "I tend to enjoy finding quieter spots instead." It was a personal preference stated simply, not a declaration of travel superiority.

All good. Cool.

But then Jess jumped in—super animated—and declared, "Oh my God, I would NEVER go to a tourist attraction on ANY trip. Like, EVER. They're such a waste of time. Only basic people visit those places."

I paused and looked at her. "Wait, what do you mean on any trip? You're telling me... if it was your first time in Paris, you would purposely avoid the Eiffel Tower? Even if you were literally walking right past it?"

And she said—dead serious—"Yes. I would never. I'd cross the street to avoid it. I don't need those cliché experiences in my life or my content."

I stood there thinking: That's not authenticity. That's performance. Vanessa had a genuine preference that suited her travel style. Jess had a persona she was desperately trying to maintain.

Somewhere along the way, we developed this unspoken hierarchy in the travel world.

At the top? The "real travelers." They seek authenticity. They find the hole-in-the-wall restaurants where "only locals eat." They stay in neighborhoods no tourist has heard of. They have profound cultural exchanges that change them forever. Their Instagram grid looks like a National Geographic feature, but "they don't really post much" because they're "too busy experiencing."

And at the bottom? The "tourists." They follow guidebooks. They visit landmarks. They stay at chain hotels or—gasp—all-inclusives. They eat at restaurants with English menus. Their photos are basic. Their experiences are commercial. Their trips are comfortable but supposedly forgettable.

This hierarchy is nonsense. And yet, so many of us have internalized it.

We've been taught that there's a right way to travel—that our experiences need to be authentic, transformative, uncommon, photogenic, story-worthy. That a good trip should somehow leave us fundamentally changed. That if we haven't had our worldview shattered or discovered some profound truth about humanity or ourselves, we've somehow failed at traveling.

What a spectacular load of pressure to put on what should be, at its core, a joy-giving experience.

Back in our 20s, Serge and I barely traveled—we were young professionals in New York, and our paychecks didn't go very far in such an expensive city. Our early trips were budget affairs: cheaper hotels, economy flights when we could find deals, and carefully planned spending money. But over the years, as our careers slowly advanced, we began to experiment with occasional splurges on nicer chains when we found special offers. Then came our first experience at a true luxury hotel (I'll share that story in a moment). And once we had that taste, something clicked.

We realized we cared more about quality than quantity. We couldn't travel all the time, but when we did, we'd save up to stay at the nicest hotel we could afford. We even got to try luxury air travel once—thanks to a crazy deal we found on Continental Airlines (RIP). We flew to Hong Kong in business class, with comfy seats and actual silverware in the sky. And yeah... that was it. We were hooked.

One of our most memorable trips was our babymoon when I was pregnant with Sean. We stayed at what used to be the Four Seasons Exuma in the Bahamas—this peaceful, gorgeous beach resort. (Yes, the same island that later became infamous as the site of Fyre Fest. But back then? It was heaven.) I still remember the coconut pancakes at breakfast—they were absolutely exquisite. Sean just turned 16 recently, and the fact that I'm still thinking about those pancakes after all these years speaks volumes.

So after the girls were born, we knew we didn't want to slide backward. We'd already found a travel style that worked for us—comfortable, intentional, well-designed—and we wanted to keep that going as a family.

That's actually what led me to start Top Flight Family. I looked around and saw a gap. Family travel content was all about budget. Luxury travel content pretended no one traveled with kids. But we were doing both. And I knew we weren't the only ones.

When I became a travel creator, I didn't pick luxury travel as a niche because it looked cool or clickable. I picked it because it was real. It's how we were already traveling.

And I think that matters. Not every creator picks a niche based on what's true for them. Some choose it because they think it'll go viral.

That's their path—but for me, starting a backpacking channel would have felt completely fake. That's not my reality. I'd be miserable. And honestly? People can feel when you're out of alignment.

The unspoken question beneath so much travel content is this: Who are you actually traveling for?

Are you choosing experiences that genuinely speak to you? Or are you crafting a narrative for others to consume?

There's no right answer, but knowing your own truth matters. Because a trip planned for likes will feel different than one planned for joy.

Resort travel wasn't something I actively avoided, but it definitely wasn't a major focus of our content in the early days of Top Flight Family. In 2019, we took 26 trips. Only one was a resort stay. That wasn’t an anomaly. Most years, our travel mix looked pretty similar.

I was naturally drawn to city travel, food, culture, local experiences. That's what lit me up and what I enjoyed sharing with our audience. Resorts were a small part of our travel mix—not because I thought they were less valuable, but simply because other types of trips took priority in our planning.

Then the pandemic changed everything.

I launched a series called 21 Resorts in 2021 to show families a safer, more structured way to ease back into travel. Resorts had strict protocols in place. And honestly, in that moment, staying on property was the more responsible choice—protecting local communities by keeping our footprint small.

What I didn't expect was how much that series would change me.

I started seeing resort travel differently. I discovered that resorts weren't just about relaxing by the pool (though there is absolutely nothing wrong with that). The best ones offered incredible food programs, cultural storytelling through kids' clubs, thoughtful design that actually reflected the destination.

Some resorts were basic, sure. But others were rich, nuanced, even educational experiences. I had mentally put "resort travel" in a box, and that box was too small.

What I realized is that there's this subtle prejudice against pleasure in travel culture. As if a trip focused on enjoyment, on comfort, on relaxation is somehow less worthy than one focused on learning, on challenge, on transformation.

But why? Why have we decided that rest isn't as valuable as adventure? That pleasure is somehow less meaningful than challenge?

I think it's time we question that assumption. Because sometimes, the most responsible, aligned, or joyful thing you can do... is book the resort. Order the room service. Spend the day by the pool with a fruity drink that comes with a little umbrella in it.

You don't have to pick a side—traveler or vacationer. You get to choose the type of trip that serves you best right now. Rest is not less valid than exploration. Structure isn't shallow. And ease is not the enemy of depth.

During the early years of our relationship, Serge and I were always looking for affordable ways to take short trips. One day, we saw a Philadelphia tourism board promo: book a night, get one free. Perfect for a weekend escape.

We scanned the list of hotels and expected to book the usual—something mid-tier like a Hilton or a Westin. But then we saw The Ritz-Carlton on the list.

And immediately, we froze.

The rate, with the promo, was totally within our budget. But our first reaction wasn't, let's book it. It was, wait—we can't stay there. That's not for people like us.

Even though no one said it, we'd internalized the message that luxury wasn't ours to claim. That spaces like that belonged to someone else.

But then we caught ourselves. "Why not us?"

So we booked it. And that weekend blew us away. The staff was warm. The bed was heavenly. Someone even remembered our names. We felt not just welcomed—but seen.

That trip was our first luxury hotel experience. And it was the start of something bigger.

Because here's the truth: That hesitation we felt? It wasn't about price. It was about permission.

And that's why Top Flight Family was always about more than travel tips. Yes, we helped families plan comfortable, beautiful trips. But on a deeper level, it was about representation.

Because when people—especially families of color—saw our daughters, two little Black girls, sitting in business class, checking into a five-star hotel, taking up space with confidence and joy... it mattered.

We've met so many viewers who say, "I didn't think I was allowed to do that... until I saw you doing it." They could afford it. They just didn't feel like they belonged.

That's the power of seeing yourself in the space. That's the power of permission.

This isn't just about luxury. It's about internalized hierarchy—what we've been taught, directly or indirectly, about what kind of travel is "valid," and more importantly, who it's for.

That feeling of "I don't belong" shows up in so many ways. A plus-size traveler might avoid adventure trips—not because they're not interested, but because they've never seen anyone who looks like them in the ads. A Black traveler might skip certain destinations altogether because they don't know how safe or welcome they'll be. A solo woman might rule out entire regions of the world—not for lack of interest, but because she's absorbed the message that she shouldn't be there alone.

These aren't just preferences. These are survival strategies built from a lifetime of subtle (and not-so-subtle) messaging about who gets to move freely, comfortably, and confidently through the world.

Before we became entrepreneurs, almost every trip Serge and I took was a vacation. Beach. Pool. Zero plans. And honestly? That's all we had the energy for.

We were both working corporate jobs, and by the time vacation days came around, we were completely spent. We didn’t want adventure—we wanted rest. We had so few days off (I don’t think I ever had a job that gave me more than 10 vacation days a year), and it felt like we had to use them to recover, not wear ourselves out more.

Once we launched Top Flight Family and started traveling with the girls, everything shifted. Our travel style expanded far beyond beach loungers and infinity pools—not because we stopped loving those things, but because we finally had the energy to explore more.

With kids in tow, we discovered the unexpected joy of places we used to dismiss. Waterparks. Theme parks. Amusement parks. Things we’d never been into before suddenly became magical through their eyes. That wasn’t a compromise—it was a surprise. A reminder that joy comes in many forms, and sometimes the “basic” stuff is where the best memories are made.

But it wasn’t only that. With more time and creative freedom, we also embraced travel that was immersive, offbeat, and deeply connective. We participated in a traditional kava ceremony in Fiji. Learned falconry in the deserts of Abu Dhabi. Tagged a wall (legally) in London’s Leake Street Arches. Floated in a hot air balloon over the Aztec pyramids of Teotihuacan. Took a pasta-making class in Milan. Watched a lion leisurely chew on a wildebeest carcass in Kenya’s Maasai Mara. Ate our way through Tokyo’s market stalls on a street food crawl we still talk about years later.

That era was vibrant, full-spectrum, and beautifully alive. We said yes to what made sense for each trip, each season, each stage of life. Sometimes it was culture and curiosity. Sometimes it was adrenaline and water slides. Sometimes, it was just relaxation.

Then a few years ago, everything slowed down. After wrapping up a year-long stretch of intense travel projects, we were all burnt out. Even the girls—who once bounded through airports with excitement—started groaning at the sight of a suitcase. The thought of boarding yet another flight made all of us wince. Home, which once felt like a quick pit stop, suddenly became magnetic. Grounding. Necessary.

We dramatically scaled back our travel schedule, focused on reestablishing daily routines, and enrolled the girls back in school after several years of homeschooling on the road. That was the season we needed: Stillness. Stability. Recovery.

Now? We're starting to feel that itch again. The girls occasionally ask, "When are we traveling next?" And surprisingly, I don't immediately dismiss the idea. While we'll never return to our former intense travel schedule, I can see myself planning something more ambitious in the coming year. Not right now, not at the same scale, but that spark of excitement about discovering new places is gently returning.

And that's what I want to emphasize: There are seasons of travel, just like there are seasons of life. What nourishes you now might not be what nourished you five years ago. And that's not a step back. That's evolution.

Your travel style isn't a fixed identity. It's a reflection of your season. And honoring where you are right now? That's not selling out. That's staying aligned.

One of the most beautiful trips we've ever taken was to Türkiye—it was a tourism board project, and it truly was incredible. We visited Istanbul, Cappadocia, saw amazing sights, and shot some of the most stunning content we've ever created.

And on Instagram? It looked like a dream.

But here's the truth: I don't feel like I really got to experience it. Because the reality behind that trip was long days, intense schedules, and wake-ups before sunrise to shoot content in golden hour light before the crowds arrived.

We were constantly negotiating with the itinerary—pulling back from things we wanted to do or rushing through moments—just to make time to capture everything.

And it's not that I regret it. The content was beautiful, our audience loved it, and I'm grateful for the opportunity. But if I'm being honest? I left Türkiye feeling like I needed a do-over. Like I had visited these incredible places... but hadn't really felt them.

And yes, that's part of the job when you're a travel creator, though Türkiye was an exception rather than the rule. Most of our trips struck a better balance between documentation and enjoyment. But I don't think this tension is limited to people like me. Because even if you're not creating content professionally—maybe you're just sharing for friends or posting on your stories—there's still this subtle pressure: Make it look good. Make it memorable. Make it perform.

Sometimes it's about clout. Sometimes it's just wanting to remember the trip. But either way, you're not in the moment. You're documenting it. And there's nothing wrong with that. But it's worth asking: What are you giving up when the trip becomes a performance?

You don't have to prove you're well-traveled. You get to feel well-rested. Well-fed. Well-connected. Whether it's a five-star photo or zero photos at all—presence is the most powerful souvenir.

When we're focused on how something looks, we're often missing how it feels.

It's strange how we've created a culture where certain types of travel are deemed more worthy than others. The adventurous trek through remote villages somehow carries more social currency than a week at a beachfront resort. The off-the-beaten-path experience is celebrated, while the popular destination is dismissed as unimaginative.

I've spent years thinking about this tension, both as someone who loves travel and as someone who built a career around it. And what I keep coming back to is this: the most authentic travel experiences aren't defined by their uniqueness, difficulty, or cultural immersion—they're defined by how well they match what you genuinely need in this moment of your life.

Sometimes, what will fill your soul is that ambitious expedition you've been planning for years. The one with the challenging hikes, the uncomfortable accommodations, the cultural exchanges that push you out of your comfort zone. If that's what lights you up right now, embrace it fully.

And other times, what your spirit truly needs is that direct flight to a familiar beach destination, with the all-inclusive package and the swim-up bar. The trip where decisions are minimal and relaxation is guaranteed. That choice is equally valid, equally worthy of your enthusiasm.

The beauty of travel isn't in how it ranks on some imaginary hierarchy of authenticity or difficulty. It's in how perfectly it aligns with your current needs, desires, and capacity. It's in the joy it brings you, not in how it photographs or how it sounds when you describe it to others.

What kind of trip would you plan if it didn't have to impress anyone? If your travels weren't measured by their cultural depth or adventurous spirit or photogenic quality—just by how right they felt for you—what would that look like?

You don't need to justify your travel choices. You don't need to prove your worth as a traveler through difficulty or discomfort. And you certainly don't need to apologize for choosing either adventure or ease, uniqueness or familiarity, challenge or comfort.

The freedom is in the choosing. In honoring what you genuinely want from your travels, what serves you in this moment, what brings you alive—without apology or explanation.

That's what authentic travel really means.

You're allowed to travel without transformation

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