My dad is a pilot so I think I was born with the travel bug.

The words of Isabel Lucas carry with them both tenderness and destiny: “My dad is a pilot so I think I was born with the travel bug.” This simple statement holds within it the timeless truth that sometimes the journeys of the parents pass, like unseen currents, into the hearts of their children. Her father soared through skies, charting paths over clouds and continents, and in so doing, planted within her a yearning to roam, to discover, to never be still. Thus, the travel bug is not only a passion of her own making, but an inheritance, born of family and nurtured by example.

In ancient times, the paths of fathers and mothers shaped the destinies of their children. The son of a blacksmith often learned the forge, the daughter of a healer inherited the wisdom of herbs. So too with Lucas: though she did not fly planes, the calling of the pilot’s life entered her spirit. Her father’s wings became, in another form, her own. The act of travel—to move beyond borders, to embrace the new—was written into her very identity, a reminder that sometimes our longings are gifts passed down by those who came before us.

The meaning of the quote is twofold. On one hand, it acknowledges the deep influence of family, for we are shaped not only by blood but by the stories, professions, and passions that surround us. On the other hand, it celebrates the restless spirit that refuses to settle. The travel bug is not a disease but a blessing—a divine itch that pushes us out of comfort, into wonder. To be “born with it” is to be born with the hunger to live expansively, to see beyond the narrow circle of the familiar.

History gives us a vivid example in the life of Marco Polo, whose family of merchants carried him along the great Silk Road to China. Had he been born into another household, he may have lived and died in the quiet canals of Venice. But his family’s trade—its journeys, its risks, its horizons—became his inheritance. Through his eyes, Europe saw a world it had scarcely imagined. Like Isabel Lucas with her pilot father, Marco Polo carried forward the wanderlust of his lineage, turning inheritance into exploration.

There is also humility in Lucas’s reflection. She does not claim her wanderlust as a solitary achievement, but roots it in her father’s path. In this, she reminds us that our own passions often begin in the lives of others. We are, in truth, branches of a larger tree. To acknowledge this is not to lessen ourselves, but to honor the roots that made us. The pilot’s wings, in this way, extend not only over the skies but over the heart of his daughter, guiding her spirit into far lands and new experiences.

The lesson for us is powerful: reflect on what passions have been handed down to you. Perhaps it was the craft of your mother, the wisdom of your father, the resilience of your ancestors. And if you discover within yourself a longing to roam, a spark to create, or a hunger to know, embrace it—not as an accident, but as part of a greater story that began before you were born. To carry the travel bug, or any passion, is to carry forward the torch of those who lit it first.

Thus, let this wisdom be handed down: honor the influences that shaped your desires, and live them fully. If you are born with the travel bug, do not cage it—walk the earth, see its wonders, and let each step connect you to both your ancestors and your descendants. For in truth, we are not solitary wanderers, but continuations of those who came before, carrying their passions into new horizons. And to embrace this inheritance is to live not only for ourselves, but as part of the eternal journey of humankind.