Every Journey Begins Long Before Departure

A journey never begins when I pack my suitcase. It starts days, sometimes weeks, before departure. No matter how hard I try not to think about it—to keep my excitement under control—I inevitably find myself researching the destination. Sometimes I lose myself in YouTube videos; sometimes I wander through random articles and travel blogs on the internet.

The way we prepare for travel has changed enormously over the years. Before the digital age, there was Lonely Planet. I would buy the guidebook weeks in advance and read it from cover to cover, over and over again. I took notes, studied the maps, imagined the streets, the people, the cafés, the landscapes. I became so immersed that it no longer felt like preparation; it felt as though I had already lived the journey. Then impatience would set in. Reading was no longer enough—I simply wanted to be there and experience it for myself.

Even today, standing on the threshold of a new adventure, I feel exactly the same excitement.

Yet travel did not become a passion for me overnight. It became something much greater—a philosophy of life, perhaps even the purpose of my life. I remember the exact moment when that realization came to me.

It was April 2005.

My mother had passed away far too young.

A few days later, my father and I were having lunch at a small restaurant in Kadıköy, Istanbul. We were both carrying an unbearable sadness, trying not to burden each other with our grief. We ate in silence, speaking only when necessary, each of us lost in our own thoughts.

My mother had been full of life. Then, suddenly, she was gone.

Her death forced me to confront questions I had never truly considered before.

What is the meaning of life?

Why are we here?

If one day we all leave this world, what is the point of the time we are given?

My father was a scholar—a man of reason, logic, and science.

I hesitated before speaking.

"I think I've found the meaning of life," I said quietly. "Can I tell you? You tell me whether it makes sense."

Then I shared the thought that had been forming in my mind.

Life, I said, is like a game.

We are all pieces on a game board, much like the pawns in Ludo. We all begin from the same starting point: birth. From there, we move forward one step at a time, as though rolling a die. Along the way we reach crossroads, and when we do, it is we who choose which direction to take.

Like solving a mathematical equation, we should first write down the facts we already know.

We know that every one of us was born.

We know that every one of us will die.

What we do not know is when.

Those are the only certainties.

The game board is our world.

And this world is filled with extraordinary wonders—nature, oceans, mountains, cultures, people, ideas, and the infinite beauty of the universe.

So I asked myself a simple question:

Who wins this game?

The answer became surprisingly clear.

If none of us knows how much time we have, then the true winner cannot be the person who accumulates the most wealth or possessions.

The winner is the one who discovers the most.

The one who remains curious.

The one who allows themselves to be amazed.

The one who sees more, understands more, feels more deeply, and appreciates every precious moment they are given.

The winner is the person who embraces this miraculous world with gratitude, knowing that every sunrise, every encounter, every journey may be a once-in-a-lifetime gift.

When I finished speaking, my father looked at me for a long moment.

There was curiosity in his eyes, but also surprise.

Then he nodded.

"You're thinking correctly," he said.

That brief conversation changed my life.

From that day on, travel was never simply about visiting new countries or collecting passport stamps.

It became my way of honoring the limited time we are all given.

Every journey became a reminder that life is not measured by its length, but by the depth with which we experience it.

To this day, I still believe that.

As long as I can continue to discover, to wonder, to learn, and to be grateful, I know I am playing this beautiful game exactly as it was meant to be played.