Why I’m Traveling Now Instead of Saving for Tomorrow

An inheritance gave me a choice: a step toward financial security or experiences I had been denied as a child. I chose the latter

a family taking a selfie and a woman standing next to an animal with a background collage of passports, money, and suitcases

An inheritance enabled author Amy Carlson Gustafson to fulfill a childhood dream: to travel. Here, she explores New Hampshire’s White Mountains and Ireland’s County Cork with her husband and son.

AARP (Courtesy Amy Carlson Gustafson; Getty Images, 3)

Amy Carlson Gustafson,

AARP

Published January 13, 2026

Perched on a seat by an open ferry window, I felt chilly. It was 65 degrees and a bit windy, and many passengers, including my husband and 13-year-old son, only took a few minutes to snap pictures before finding a warmer part of the boat. But me? I didn’t move during the 75-minute trip. Italy’s Amalfi Coast stretched before me. Rugged cliffs cast shadows over quaint towns. The brilliant blue water of the Mediterranean Sea sparkled in the sun. I squinted, trying not to miss a thing.

I couldn’t help thinking about how we had funded our trip: using money my mother left me when she died, two years earlier. She rarely traveled more than a couple of hours away from our small hometown in Minnesota. She had never gone abroad. Had never boarded a plane. Had never even seen the ocean.

I was doing something my mother never did. As we passed the picturesque town of Positano, I felt both gratitude and guilt as I put down my camera and wrapped my arms around my chest.

The price of deferred dreams

Growing up as a Gen X kid in southern Minnesota, I was fed my fair share of MTV, home perms and secondhand cigarette smoke. I had a few close friends and an annoying older brother. I had a strained relationship with my father and a close one with my mother. Our only real family vacation was a trip to a Minnesota resort when I was 5 or 6. We stayed in a cabin. I used cheese to try to lure minnows in shallow water. We secured our garbage against bears. The older kids hung out in the game room. While I don’t remember much, the thought of it makes me smile.

In high school, I made my friends promise to send me postcards from their travels, and I’d tack them on the corkboard in my room. Kara had gone to Florida. Laura to Mexico. Elsa to France. They were having adventures I could only imagine.

My father, a professor at the local community college, had saved a significant portion of his money for retirement, at which point he planned to travel. Then life does what it does best: It happened. At the age of 57, my father was diagnosed with kidney cancer. He died seven months later, the day before my 21st birthday.

All that saved money, all those deferred dreams. For me, my dad’s death was proof that sometimes “someday” never comes.

Lighting candles

When my mom died in March of 2023, she left all her assets to my brother and me. I set aside some of what I received, but the $65,000 I got from my dad’s retirement fund? I knew exactly what I was going to do with it, since I was finally in a place in my life where I had the luxury of choosing between saving and vacationing, rather than paying off student loans and credit card bills.

I’d already taken some trips with my husband and son in prior years — to New Orleans, Chicago, the North Shore of Minnesota, Canada. But with the inheritance, I kicked our adventures into high gear, starting with a family trip to New England, with stops at the White Mountains, Walden Pond and Fenway Park. Eight months later, I made my first trip to New York City. (I’ve returned five times since then!)

From left to right: Amy’s son tries lobster in Maine; Amy and her son view Manhattan from the Empire State Building; the family learn to make pizzas at a Tuscan farmhouse outside of Florence, Italy.

Courtesy Amy Carlson Gustafson

Then, in June 2024, I took my first-ever trip to Europe — to Ireland. I was desperate to connect with my mother’s Irish roots. After visiting the Cliffs of Moher, my husband and I drove on bumpy, one-lane dirt roads through the rolling countryside of County Clare, seeking the church where my great-great-grandparents were married. In the village of Dysart we found St. Tola’s Catholic Church and ventured inside. The small church was empty. I lit a candle, offering a silent thank you to my mother for making this experience possible. I also told her I missed her.

Giving what I never had

One reason I wanted to use my inheritance on travel was to give my son experiences I was denied. Turns out he’d rather be home playing video games than touring Pompeii or exploring Alcatraz. It’s a good reminder that just because those were my dreams when I was his age, it doesn’t mean they’re his. I just really want him to know the world is bigger than our St. Paul suburb, bigger than Minnesota, bigger than the United States.

At Florence’s Duomo, he said he missed his friends and was bored, so I asked him to light a candle for Grandma Sheila. He was reluctant at first, but then carefully lit the votive, paused and took a step back. A moment of reflective silence. A moment of connection.

He told me recently that he doesn’t like traveling with us because we don’t share the same interests, but he can’t wait to explore the world with friends when he’s older. “That’s cool,” I said nonchalantly. Inside, I did a happy dance.

Grateful, guilty, here

Back on the ferry from Amalfi, the air was still cold, the sky still bright. I clutched the window frame, my cheeks red from sun and wind.

I’ve spent the majority of the $65,000. I’ve dragged my kid through museums he didn’t want to see and made choices my mother would disapprove of. But I’m not the girl staring at postcards on her bedroom wall anymore. I’m not trapped in a small town.

As I stared out that window, I thought about how all my travels came about because my parents were dead. They also happened at the expense of college and retirement funds, which I’m sure my mom would have preferred I use the money for. “Those are the responsible adult options,” my brain scolded me.

I don’t know if my son will ever understand or if my mother would be proud. But I know my father died at 57 with his travel fund intact. I know my mother had the means, but never wanted to go anywhere. I’m not waiting anymore.

As the ferry pulled into Sorrento, I stood up, stiff from sitting so long, and found my son and husband. I squeezed them tight. I was grateful. I was guilty. I was here.

AARP essays share a point of view in the author’s voice, drawn from expertise or experience, and do not necessarily reflect the views of AARP.

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Amy Carlson Gustafson is a freelance writer who covers a variety of topics, including travel, entertainment, aging and pets. Her work has appeared in AARP The Magazine, Bustle, The Minnesota Star Tribune and other outlets.

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