Why I’m Chasing Wonder

It was January 2023, and I had just finished debriefing my recent trip to India with one of my closest friends. One story led to another — the time I lost control of five Siberian Huskies on a dog sledding adventure in Norway, the time I was afraid of being kidnapped by the Chilean Mafia, and the time I accidentally booked a homestay in Cuba with a former Lieutenant-General in Fidel Castro’s revolutionary army.

After several hours of meandering conversation, my friend paused and said: ‘Have you ever considered writing some of these stories down?’

I immediately rolled my eyes. The world does not need another travel blog.

She continued: ‘You love writing, you have thousands of amazing photographs, you’ve travelled to so many incredible places… Why not?’

As it turned out, I had no shortage of objections: The internet is saturated with travel content… Most travel writers have travelled far more extensively than I have… I don’t want to turn my travels into work… There’s no way I’m taking selfies in a bikini…

And then came the objection that stopped me in my tracks:

There’s so much suffering in the world — surely it would be inappropriate for me to write stories about my relatively privileged life?

But that conversation planted a seed. A week later, I messaged my friend and told her that I had a name for the project — ‘Chasing Wonder’.

I’d had that phrase in the back of my mind for quite some time, not knowing quite what its purpose was or how I might use it. But I sensed that there was a single thread that connected all of my travel experiences — witnessing the Northern Lights in Norway; marvelling at the Sagrada Familia in Spain; catching a glimpse of a lilac-breasted roller in Tanzania (a bird that my sister described as looking like it had eaten a 72-pack of Derwent coloured pencils).

Lilac-breasted roller, Tarangire National Park, Tanzania

They were all driven by a desire to experience wonder.

Wonder: that moment when your soul gasps.

And the more I travelled, the more I realised that wonder wasn’t just a byproduct of my travels — it was why I travelled.

And as I continued to travel, I started to become curious about the subtleties of wonder. For instance, why did some of my most wondrous moments arrive when I was least expecting them?

In India, it wasn’t the Taj Mahal that truly blew me away (as majestic as it was) — it was the time I navigated a labyrinth of side streets to get to my hotel in Varanasi. In Peru, it wasn’t Machu Picchu — it was getting caught up in a local street parade that was celebrating the Epiphany in Cusco. In Greece, it wasn’t the Acropolis — it was a ginger cat named Stavros who joined me for breakfast on my first morning in Athens.

When I reflected on my actual experiences of wonder — not just the things I found impressive, but the moments that made my soul gasp — it occurred to me that maybe it was less about me chasing wonder and more about wonder chasing me.

Oh, the irony.

Over time, I started to see wonder playing out in other areas of my life — not just when I was travelling. There was something emerging about the value of wonder as a way of being — something that could be cultivated or chosen as a fundamental orientation towards life. And if that were the case, then perhaps it wasn’t a frivolous luxury reserved for those with the means to travel the world.

What if wonder is a uniquely human capacity that is available to everyone?

Three years passed.

Earlier this year, I was in Porto, Portugal, doing what you do when you’re in one of the most charming cities in Europe — doomscrolling in my hotel room. I was intensely irritated with myself for allowing news of the ‘outside world’ to encroach on my holiday. And yet somehow I couldn’t bring myself to look away.

But then wonder came to visit me — and it said: What if things could be different?

What if all of the suffering in the world — the suffering that stopped me in my tracks all those years ago and has even intensified since then — was not a reason to dismiss wonder but, rather, the very condition that makes wonder necessary?

What if wonder is the quietly radical counterpoint to the complexity and fear and polarisation that dominates the headlines — and our lives?

What if wonder could change the world?

I don’t know — but that’s what I’m here to find out.

Melbourne, Australia, May 2026