Time Traveling in Thailand

January 2026

I’ve known my mother my entire life, yet there are versions of her I have never met. I don’t know what made her laugh when she was younger, what cities she dreamed of seeing, or what kind of woman she was before responsibility took over. I know her as a mother - tireless, practical, endlessly giving - but never as a young woman who once wanted things for herself.

Growing up, love in our home was rarely spoken aloud. It lived in routines and quiet acts of care. My mom loved us by choosing stability over desire, necessity over indulgence, us over herself. Somewhere along the way, her wants became secondary, then invisible. I learned what my favorite foods were, what colors made me happy, what opportunities I should chase - all because she made space for them. But I never stopped to ask: what made her happy?

This winter break, I wanted to meet that version of her - not just as my mother, but as a woman. So I planned a trip to Thailand for the two of us; all in the hope this would give me a chance to meet her younger self, before she was a responsible mother. I wanted to know what she liked, what her favorite color was, what she would order for herself for take-out, whether she was a vacationer or a traveler. For one trip, I wanted to time travel.

We had five glorious days in Bangkok, a city in our oyster. Almost immediately, I realized that our travel styles were quite different. My mom is a vacationer - she prefers strolling over itineraries. But she’s also very Type B and prefers when she can follow other people’s plans. This worked out in my favor: every night would end with me narrating our itinerary for the next day. Still, it was hard to decipher what she truly liked; years of being a mom had taught her to suppress her own preferences, to adapt quietly rather than assert.

Quickly, I began to learn her. My mom loves fruit from street food vendors. She loves learning the history of the places we visit and marveled at the Grand Palace as we discovered every nook and cranny. She hates experimental food (no fried scorpion for us), prefers tom yum goong over pad thai, and loves good mango sticky rice. Naturally, I began shaping our next plans around her - where we ate, what we saw, when we slowed down. It felt like a small reversal of roles, like I was finally learning how to take care of her.

I also discovered that my mom is a prodigy at window shopping, something completely opposite of me. When I shop, if I like something, the decision is made - it’s coming home with me. My mom, on the other hand, thinks carefully before buying anything. She mentally audits every pro and con, weighing usefulness against indulgence, want against justification.

As we explored the malls of Bangkok - ICONSIAM, CentralWorld, Platinum - I would always push her when she liked something. It would take five minutes of convincing: the dress looks nice, the color is beautiful, yes, you’ll get wears out of it. But when she finally bought something, I knew how much it meant to her. I imagined her younger self, shopping with friends, consulting them before making any decision. Maybe it annoyed them at the time, but it feels unmistakably endearing now. It made me wonder how many times she talked herself out of things simply because she was used to not choosing herself.

Food, to me, is essential to experiencing a new place. I’ll go out of my way to find highly rated restaurants, hidden gems, or race to snag a reservation at a Michelin-star spot. My mom, initially, didn’t see the point - is it even important? she’d ask, insisting we could eat anywhere. But once two Michelin-star restaurants made it onto our itinerary, she transformed into a full-fledged food critic. She knew which beef was more tender, realized she wasn’t fond of oysters, and became an expert on tom yum goong consistencies. I couldn’t help but think that maybe her younger self could have been a food influencer - if she had ever been given the space to explore that side of herself.

As we made our New Year’s countdown plans, I discovered something else about her: she loves fireworks. This surprised me - back home, we had never gone out of our way to watch them. But Bangkok seemed to unlock something different in her. So there we were, running from our New Year’s Eve dinner just to catch a glimpse of the fireworks lighting up the sky.

As we watched 2026 trickle in, surrounded by noise and color and strangers celebrating around us, I thought about time - how much of it she had given away, how much of herself had been folded quietly into motherhood. I don’t know if her younger self and I would have been friends. We might have been too different: she more careful, me more decisive; she inclined to pause, me eager to move forward. But I think we would have understood each other. I see how who I am exists because of who she chose to be - how her patience made room for my certainty, how her restraint gave me permission to want more. And I wonder how many of the things I now take for granted were once things she quietly set aside.

I didn’t fully meet the young woman she once was on this trip. But I caught glimpses of her - in the way she lingered over fruit carts, in her careful shopping, in her excitement over fireworks, in her growing confidence ordering food she liked. And maybe that’s enough. Because meeting her didn’t mean traveling backward in time; it meant finally slowing down long enough to ask who she was - and giving her permission to answer.