From a young age, the world called to me—not through airports or passports, but through a dusty globe from a flea market. My father handed it to me as a child with little fanfare, but unknowingly, he was giving me something far more valuable than a toy: he was giving me a dream. Though the globe was worn and faded, I treated it like treasure. I traced my fingers across unfamiliar names, imagining the lives, the landscapes, the languages that existed far beyond the horizon.
My father once said, “If I were you, I’d see the world before settling down.” That advice etched itself into my spirit. He fed my imagination with tools that would become symbolic milestones: first the globe, then a map I hung above my bed, and eventually, a hand-bound journal he made himself.
On the first page, he had typed: “The Travels of Glen A. Dalisay — Follow your heart and the world will unfold before your eyes.” I was only 12, but those words stayed with me. I didn’t know it then, but I was already setting out on the most important journey of my life.
I grew up in America as a first-generation Filipino—caught between two cultures, searching for my place in both. I didn’t quite feel American, and yet I didn’t fully feel Filipino either. My identity was constantly in flux. Add to that the confusion I felt about my sexuality, and I was a young person trying to make sense of who I was in a world that didn’t always offer a clear reflection.
I often felt like I stood out in ways I didn’t want to. All I wished for was to blend in—to disappear into the crowd. To be accepted without explanation. But then I started traveling. When I decided I was going to visit every country in the world, it wasn’t about collecting stamps or chasing status. It was about finding connection, belonging, and understanding—not just of the world, but of myself. I was obsessed with learning about people, cultures, and history.
What I found was something I never expected: the more places I went, the more whole I became. I didn’t just find pieces of the world—I found pieces of myself.
In each country, I found echoes of who I was. I met people with similar struggles, people who lived joyfully in their truth, people who welcomed me as if I had always belonged. Slowly, I began to realize: I didn’t need to blend in to belong. I could stand out and still be accepted. In fact, standing out became my strength.
Travel taught me that while the world is vast, human experience is deeply shared. We all want to be seen, understood, and loved. Whether in a crowded market in Morocco, a small island in the Pacific, or a mountain village in Eastern Europe, I saw myself reflected in others. And I learned that I wasn’t alone. I was never alone.
More importantly, I learned to love who I am. To accept every part of me—my heritage, my sexuality, my uniqueness—as something beautiful. The discomfort I once felt became a source of power. The desire to disappear was replaced by the courage to be fully visible. And in learning to see the world for all that it is, I learned to truly see myself. Traveling has shown me a life I never imagined possible. The people I’ve met, the experiences
I’ve had, and the stories I’ve lived have changed my perspective on what it means to be human. They taught me bravery, patience, empathy—and above all, grace. I’ve learned to sit in silence with strangers and feel a shared understanding. I’ve learned to communicate without words and still be heard. I’ve learned that identity isn’t a fixed point—it’s a living, breathing journey.
And so I arrived—197 countries later—not at a destination, but at a truth: I fit in everywhere I go, because I carry home within me. If there’s anything I hope others take from my journey, it’s this: the world is not something to be feared or judged from a distance. It is meant to be felt, heard, and embraced. Every culture has wisdom. Every person has a story. Every place holds something sacred.
So follow your heart. Be curious. Let the world unfold before your eyes—and it just might lead you back to yourself.
Glen Antolin Dalisay
