Perhaps it was the exhaustion more than anything else. The kind that settles deep into your bones after days and nights of coughing, when sleep comes in short, broken stretches and even the simplest task feels like too much. Or perhaps it was clarity, the kind that arrives in the middle of discomfort, when there is nothing left to distract you from what matters most. Whatever it was, somewhere between those relentless coughing jags and the fog of fatigue, we made a decision we had been resisting for too many days.

Plus, when we ran into obstacles in continuing to obtain our second passports and the Chinese visas while outside the US and nowhere near an embassy, the handwriting was on the wall. It became another signal that this chapter of extended, complicated travel was beginning to shift in ways we could no longer ignore.

We canceled the 65 nights of back-to-back cruises we had so carefully planned for 2027.

Even writing those words now feels strange. Those cruises had represented something to look forward to, a continuation of the life we have built over all these years of traveling the world. They were not just bookings on a calendar. They were part of our identity, part of the way we move through life, always onward, always curious, always grateful.

And yet, as we sat there, both of us sick, both of us worn down in a way we had not experienced since Covid in 2023, we knew we had reached a turning point.

It is not that the ships themselves were the issue. In fact, the upcoming cruises with Azamara would have been on smaller ships, carrying only about 700 passengers. In many ways, they seemed like a safer choice than the larger ships we had recently sailed on, which carried over 3,000 people. But it was not only about the number of passengers. It was the length of time. Sixty-five nights is a long stretch to be in a contained environment, no matter how luxurious or well-managed it may be.

We have learned something about our bodies over these past few years, something we can no longer ignore. We do not tend to get sick at the beginning of a cruise. Those first two weeks usually pass without issue. It is toward the end, when the accumulation of exposure begins to take its toll, that illness finds its way in. And when it does, it does not politely do so at some arbitrary location. It follows us to the next destination, lingering, stretching into weeks of recovery.

This time has been no different, only worse.

I first started feeling symptoms around May 1. At the time, it seemed manageable, just another travel bug that would pass in a few days. But here I am, three weeks later, still coughing, still feeling that heavy layer of fatigue that refuses to lift. Tom’s symptoms came later, almost deceptively mild at first. A runny nose on May 11 that we attributed to the lush greenery in Vancouver, Washington. It seemed harmless, almost predictable.

By the next day, as we began our road trip to Minnesota, it was anything but.

Watching him push through those long hours of driving while clearly unwell was both impressive and concerning. I offered to take over more than once, but he insisted, as always, determined. In hindsight, it feels almost surreal that we made it at all. Somewhere along that drive, we made another difficult decision, canceling our planned visit to Yellowstone National Park. At the time, it felt like yet another disappointment in a string of them. Later, we learned a major snowstorm had swept through the area. Once again, we had unknowingly made the right choice.

Now, six days into our time in Minnesota, we find ourselves in an unexpected pause. We came here to be with family, to celebrate, to reconnect. Instead, we have kept our distance, unwilling to risk passing along this awful virus to those we love. It is a strange kind of isolation, being so close and yet choosing to stay away.

We are fairly certain that what we are dealing with is RSV. Dozens of passengers from our last cruise have shared their diagnoses, and the symptoms align all too well with what we are experiencing—the lingering cough, the fatigue, the slow, stubborn recovery. There is little to be done beyond managing the symptoms and waiting it out, hoping it does not worsen.

Tom is behind me in the timeline of this illness, and that is perhaps the hardest part right now. As I begin, slowly, to see the faintest signs of improvement, he is in the thick of it. This morning, after a restless night, he went back to bed, his body demanding the rest it had not been able to get. There is an understanding between us, one that does not need words. We know this will take time.

And so, in the middle of all this, we picked up the phone and called Costco Travel. There was no dramatic discussion, no drawn-out debate. We knew. Canceling those four cruises meant losing $1,200 of our $4,400 in deposits, but in that moment, it did not feel like a loss. It felt like an investment in something far more important.

Our health.

We have always known this day would come. With Tom’s pulmonary fibrosis after decades of exposure on the railroad, and my ongoing cardiovascular issues, we have never been under the illusion that we could travel exactly as we always have, forever. Still, knowing something intellectually and accepting it emotionally are two very different things.

We fought it. We stretched it. We continued, perhaps longer than we should have.

But this is not the end of our travels. Not even close.

It is simply a shift.

We will still explore. We will still write. We will still wake up in new places and find joy in the unfamiliar. But we will do so with more care, more intention, and a deeper respect for the limits our bodies are beginning to set.

For now, we wait. We rest. We listen.

Perhaps in a few days, I will be well enough to see family. Perhaps Tom will follow a week later. We have eighteen days here, and we will take each one as it comes.

As we always have.

Be well.

Photo from ten years ago today, May 21, 2016