For a long time, I struggled to answer that question. What does adventure mean to me?

I think I finally understand.

What the trunk could not carry, the branches reached for.

What the branches could not hold, the leaves would catch.

A tree is never just one thing. It is roots, trunk, branches, and leaves—each a generation, each necessary. No single part is more important on its own, yet none can exist without the others. Growth only happens together.

My family’s first great adventure was not a choice made lightly—it was survival. Immigration. At that time, my great-grandparents were the roots, buried deep in sacrifice. My grandparents became the trunk, bearing the weight. My parents were the branches, stretching toward stability. And my sister and I were the leaves—new, fragile, carried by what came before us.

My grandparents spoke often of what it cost to keep the tree alive. Meals without meat. Nights when hunger was normal. My mother told me stories of going to bed with empty stomachs. As a child, I listened but did not yet understand. My parents made sure we never felt that absence.

Understanding came later—when I traveled back to the places my grandparents and parents once called home. When I stood on the same ground they stood on. When I felt how narrow the margins once were. And later still, when the roles shifted again—when my grandparents returned to the earth and became roots themselves. The tree changed. My parents became the trunk. My sister and I became the branches.

This is what adventure means to me.

It is not escape. It is continuation.

It is the responsibility to push gently, deliberately, beyond the limits set before us—not in defiance, but in gratitude. My grandparents did not travel so that we could. My parents carried weight so we could move freely.

One day, the roles will shift again. When that happens, I want to know that I stretched far enough—that I grew wide enough—that the next generation inherits a tree unafraid to reach higher.

Maybe even high enough to touch the moon.