July 2023: Morocco
In Morocco, Henry and I were a duo testing the limits of each other’s patience, pushing the boundaries of what it means to bridge two generations in one family. Here I was, the daughter of immigrants who had a scarcity mindset engrained in me, used to hearing no more than yes. As a kid, I didn’t question what I didn’t have—I thought it was enough. It was enough to be loved, enough to feel safe, and that was it.
But as I grew older, I wanted something smoother for my own life and, later, for Henry. The idea was to avoid struggle, to live without the grinding weight of necessity on our shoulders. Only, somewhere along the way, my child and I diverged on what struggle even meant.
When Karen half-joked she wanted to be reborn as my kid, I laughed with her, but deep down, I got it. I wouldn’t mind being my own kid either. Here was Henry, his life a buffer of ease, never needing to lift a finger unless he felt like it, and yet missing the basics of day-to-day life that once seemed so self-evident to me. I’m an independent thinker, always have been. Did I sometimes follow the crowd? Sure—I’m curious like that. But Morocco laid things bare: in my quest to make things easier, had I stripped my son of some essential grit?
The camel ride would be our trial by fire. We had trekked over 10,000 miles for this: camels against the backdrop of the desert, the smell of earth and spice and ancient air filling our lungs. But Henry froze when he saw his camel, a vocal beast grumbling and complaining as it settled into the sand. He wanted out—immediately. I wanted in. “We didn’t come all this way for you to watch the camels from the sidelines, Henry.”
In the end, we switched camels. He took the gentler one while I got on the grumpy one, mumbling under my breath the whole time. And there it was: the chasm between us. Where I had to survive on instinct and wit, Henry had grown up cushioned, desensitized by social media’s ever-present footage of life’s gritty details. He saw the world every day, but only through a screen, its mysteries and dangers spoon-fed and filtered, leaving little room for that feeling of surprise, of risk and wonder I’d craved as a kid.
Did I feel like the cool mom, dragging my kid through the desert to show him what real culture looked like? Maybe. Did I wish he’d have rolled with the challenges a little more easily? Definitely. But even when we clashed, I knew I’d do it all over again—force him to switch camels, make him taste the unknown. Because in the end, there’s something intoxicating about relying on common sense and teaching it to him in real time. This trip wasn’t just a vacation—it was a reminder. A reminder that some things don’t come prepackaged, filtered, and easy. And I want Henry to know that life can still surprise him if he lets it.