Why a Solo Trip to Paradise Made Me Miss My Ordinary Life

I recently took a trip to Cancun, Mexico—by myself, without my husband or children. The sole purpose of the trip was to get my teeth fixed. I had planned to have roughly $5,000 worth of dental work done. From the beginning, though, the trip did not go as planned.

Even while planning, something felt off.

I booked my tickets months in advance, planning to leave when my youngest would be about 10 or 11 months old. I thought I’d be comfortable being away for a week by then. My husband would be home with the boys, and between grandma and a close friend, he’d have help if a work emergency came up. Since I’d never been to Mexico before, I didn’t want to go alone. My step-grandma was thrilled to come with me. She would pay for her plane ticket and food, and I’d cover the hotel, my ticket, and my food. It felt like a solid plan.

As the trip got closer, the flights changed a couple of times—no big deal. But my gut kept telling me the trip was going to flop. Two months before leaving, I found out I was pregnant with baby number four. Still, no problem… right? The dental consultant assured me repeatedly that I could get all the work done while pregnant. That reassurance mattered a lot.

Then October hit. Three weeks before I left, my husband and I decided to buy another business. Stressful timing, but still doable. Everything was technically on track.

Emotionally, though, I was unraveling.

A couple of weeks before leaving, my nerves were through the roof. I hadn’t been away from my husband for a full week since the year we got married, and I had never left my boys for more than 24 hours. I wasn’t worried about my husband’s ability to care for them—I trusted him completely. What shook me was the thought of being away from the little people I loved most, the ones I’d cared for every hour of every day for over three years.

As departure got closer, I realized something unexpected: my husband’s arms had become my safe place. Where my dad’s once were, now my husband’s held me. He was where I cried, where I could be fully myself, where my worries melted away. I don’t think I would’ve realized the depth of that if I hadn’t taken this trip. I also realized I didn’t want to go. Deep down, it didn’t feel right.

The day I left, the car was packed. I said goodbye at the airport, trying not to cry, remembering how it felt being dropped off five years earlier when my husband and I were still dating—sadness mixed with butterflies. TSA was easy. The tiny airport had changed so much since the last time I’d been there, expanded from six gates to nearly double.

When I reached my gate, my plane wasn’t even there yet. I sat down and listened to my audiobook. Then came a notification: my flight was delayed an hour. My heart sank. Minutes later, a man had a heart attack nearby and EMTs rushed in. My anxiety spiked.

When the plane finally arrived, we boarded—only for the pilot to announce they couldn’t get the cargo door shut. Another delay. Eventually, we took off for Dallas.

In Dallas, the gate changed twice, but thankfully my layover was long enough that the delays didn’t cause me to miss my connection. By the time I arrived in Cancun, it was much later than planned. To make matters worse, the U.S. government was shut down at the time.

The Cancun airport hit me immediately—old, moldy, humid, and dirty. I was grateful my husband wasn’t with me; he’s severely allergic to mold. After customs, I stepped into chaos—people shouting “taxi” from every direction. Thankfully, the dental office had arranged transportation.

After a 30-minute wait, my ride finally arrived. I dragged myself into the car and headed to the hotel. The heat and humidity were suffocating. By the time I arrived, I was exhausted, sweaty, and grumpy. My step-grandma had already checked in and had the only room key. My phone service wasn’t working, despite promises it would. I knocked on a door—wrong floor, wrong room, 10 p.m. Finally, after another elevator ride, I found the right door and collapsed inside.

The next morning, we were up early. Transportation was supposed to arrive at 8 a.m. We walked to a convenience store for bottled water and food since the restaurant didn’t open until 8:30. Breakfast was a slimy sandwich that turned my stomach. At 8:15, still no ride. I called the dental office—they said it would be there at 8:45.

By the time we arrived at the dentist office, the resort area was buzzing. The office itself was clean, modern, and beautiful. After photos, X-rays, and a consultation, the dentist said the words that shattered me:

Because I was pregnant, they couldn’t do any of the work.

Despite all my research. Despite being assured repeatedly that it was safe. My brain went into overdrive trying not to break down. I had left my husband and children for a week. I had spent money on flights, hotels, food—none of which I would’ve done if I’d known this outcome.

This trip was never meant to be a vacation. It was a necessary health trip. I had no desire to leave my family for leisure.

Eventually, the owner and head dentist met with me, apologized deeply, and offered 15% off all future work, and hat the transportation and consultation on them this time. That helped. Essentially, the cost of this trip would be what I’d save later.

Still, my heart wanted to go home.

I called my husband, explained everything, and asked what I should do. He told me to stay and try to enjoy myself—that I deserved the break. I cried again. His selflessness only made me love him more, even though all I wanted was to be with him and our boys.

That week was brutal.

I tried to enjoy myself. We sat on the beach, read books, took naps. But depression hit me hard. I felt like I was drowning. Everywhere I looked, I saw families. All I wanted was mine—to watch my boys run in the sand, splash in the water, experience it together. On day six, I didn’t even want to get out of bed. I couldn’t understand why God had led me there.

I remembered a friend once telling me that a solo trip was exactly what she needed—time away from her husband and kids. I had told her that wasn’t what this trip was about for me. I had no desire for “me time” away from my family.

Yet there I was, living what many mothers would dream of—and completely miserable.

That’s when it became clear: the family God gave me is exactly where I belong. Even on the hard days. Even when I’m overwhelmed. I would rather be home doing dishes and laundry, watching my children grow, than alone in a tropical paradise. I would rather talk with my husband at the end of a long day than sit by myself watching a sunset.

Raising my children is my dream life. Being my husband’s helpmate is where my heart rests.

God used that trip to show me—clearly, unmistakably—how deeply content I actually am. It reminded me to thank Him for my blessings instead of letting discontent creep in.

I don’t ever want to repeat that trip to Cancun.

I did have moments of enjoyment. I did have fun. But I would have rather shared it with my family—or skipped it altogether to be with them.

Looking back, I can see that God used that trip to show me—clearly and unmistakably—how deeply content I actually am. It reminded me to stop taking my life for granted, to thank Him for the blessings I live inside of every day instead of longing for something else. I don’t ever want to repeat the trip I had to Cancun.

What I gained wasn’t rest or escape, but clarity. My joy isn’t found in distance from my family, but in faithfulness to the life God has entrusted to me. Raising my children and walking alongside my husband isn’t a consolation prize—it’s the calling I cherish most.

As the apostle Paul wrote:

“Not that I speak in respect of want: for I have learned, in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content.”

—Philippians 4:11 (KJV)

And that, in itself, was the lesson.