We just returned from two weeks in Spain and Portugal, exploring four cities, countless cobblestone streets, many delicious meals, and one very observant 10-month-old who saw every bit of it from her carrier or stroller. And somewhere between Barcelona’s energy, Madrid’s charm, Porto’s river views, and Lisbon’s hills, I realized something:
traveling as a mom is totally different and somehow even richer.

I’m still the same person who loves history, architecture, and the stories tucked into old walls. But now, I’m also the person who’s carrying a baby up steep hills in a light drizzle, whispering little explanations about what she’s seeing, hoping my back holds out just a bit longer because watching her eyes widen with curiosity is worth every ache.

We loved each city for different reasons. Porto might have been my favorite. Something about the river, the hills, the golden light. Lisbon stole my husband’s heart. And my mom, well, the hills were not her best friend. 😂

But the moments I keep replaying aren’t really the “big” travel moments. They’re the tiny, sweet snapshots I kept trying to freeze in my mind:

The train ride across the country, all of us quietly watching mountains roll by.
The cozy nights catching up on our current binge after long days of exploring.
Dragging suitcases through airports and train stations while laughing at how ridiculous we must have looked.
Hunting for children’s books in Spanish and Portuguese, little seeds of heritage we hope take root in Cata’s heart.
And yes, the very relatable panic when our freshly washed clothes in Barcelona got completely soaked overnight on the patio drying rack, forcing us to trek through the pouring rain to a laundromat before checkout. (Travel memories at their finest, right? 🤣)

But my favorite moment?
Our very last day.

I convinced my mom, Adriano, and Cata (in a stroller this time) to climb what felt like the steepest hill in Lisbon to see the Castillo de San Jorge. Within minutes our thighs and lungs were burning, and all of us were complaining and laughing about who thought this was a good idea. (We all knew it was me. 😎)

The view at the top was stunning with Lisbon spread out below us, the river shimmering, the main square glowing in the afternoon light. It felt like the perfect reward.

Then, just as we were leaving, the sky opened up and it began pouring.
And let me tell you, going down that hill on wet cobblestones was far scarier than going up. 😳 We slipped more than once, holding onto each other, laughing through the nerves while my husband joked, “Whose hairbrained idea was this?!”

Mine. Obviously. 😅

And still, it was worth it.
Every slippery step, every complaint, every raindrop.

Because these memories?
Priceless.
Richer because we lived them together.

People often say that marriage limits your freedom. Or that once you have kids, life pauses. Adventures end. Everything gets harder. And yes, things are harder. But harder doesn’t mean less beautiful. Harder often just means more meaningful.

Before we were married, we decided we didn’t want a life that shrank with each new season. We wanted our marriage to expand. We wanted our family to expand, not just in size, but in experience and joy and story. We chose to invite our kids into our adventurous life, not put our life on hold.

And this trip reminded me all over again:
Love keeps expanding if you let it.
Even in the smallest, rainiest, most uphill moments.

Motherhood is the season I once prayed for, the one I dreamed about for years. But even in the seasons before this, seasons of independence, quiet mornings, freedom to be spontaneous, there was richness too. Just a different kind.

And that’s the thing:
Each season has its own richness, if we just take a moment to notice it, and the way love expands even in the smallest moments of that season.