I used to believe I was a good traveller. Curious. Kind. Conscious. But as I moved through the villages of Vietnam, past rice paddies, crumbling temples, food stalls, and families, I was forced to reckon with a quieter truth. I have always been a privileged traveller. And with that privilege comes a responsibility.
To travel is to move freely. To have choice. To have time, resources, and safety. That freedom is not evenly distributed. For some, it’s an annual vacation. For others, it’s a backpacking rite of passage. But for many, travel, especially international travel, remains a luxury or an impossibility.
On this trip, something inside me shifted. I had no big awakening moment. It came slowly, in uncomfortable waves. Seeing a local girl playing outside her family’s food stall as tourists walked by in $2000 sneakers. Watching a man sell pineapples on a highway shoulder from sunrise to dusk while influencers posed just metres away. Realising that I was free to enter this country for leisure, but locals from here might not receive the same ease or welcome abroad. These were truths I couldn’t unsee.
Even the concept of “slow travel”, a phrase often championed as a conscious, enlightened alternative, carries an irony, I know this as I have been using it. Choosing to slow down requires having the option to begin with. To spend months in another country, doing yoga, journaling, and “finding yourself” is a privilege that often goes unnamed.
The hard truth? Our passports are not neutral. Nor are our currencies. As Western travellers, especially those of us with dual incomes, savings, or remote work, we often arrive in countries where our money stretches further. That power dynamic shows up in subtle ways: how we’re treated, who gets to participate in tourism, what gets prioritised, and what gets erased.
But guilt, while valid, is not the point. Awareness is. With awareness comes the chance to change the way we move through the world.
Here’s what I’m learning:
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To travel mindfully is to travel humbly. It means asking questions, not just of the places we visit, but of ourselves. Why are we here? Who benefits from our presence? What systems are we complicit in?
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Support local economies. Choose family-run businesses over chains. Eat where locals eat. Take tours with guides who live and work in the region. (when possible)
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Learn the history. Not the tourist brochure version, the real, complex, often painful history of the places we visit. Let that knowledge shape your perspective.
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Check your lens. Not everything needs to be photographed or posted. Some moments are not yours to capture.
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Be uncomfortable. That discomfort is often where growth begins. Let it teach you something.
Travel will always have contradictions. You can be both grateful and uneasy. You can hold beauty in one hand and inequality in the other. But if you have the privilege to see the world, don’t just take from it. Learn from it. Honour it. And whenever you can, give something meaningful back.
This is how I’m trying to move now, with more softness, more questions, and more responsibility. Not because I have it all figured out, but because I know I never fully will. And that, too, is part of the journey.
