I had dreamed of going to Bali for years, so much so that my Instagram feed was full of images of its rice terraces, temples, and sunsets. But I hesitated. I had just become a mother. And the idea of travelling internationally with a baby felt like signing up for a Formula One pit stop—constantly busy, with unexpected things always popping up.But more than anything, I missed the woman I used to be before lullabies and diapers became my daily rhythm. I missed the entrepreneur-yoga teacher-hustling girl. Don’t get me wrong… I loved being a mother, but I also missed my old self. So one day, heart pounding, I calmed myself just enough to hit ‘Book Now’ on the MakeMyTrip website. This wasn’t just about booking a holiday; it was a quiet decision to go looking for parts of myself that I feared I had lost. We went to the Passport Kendra and got my six-month-old her very first passport. And just like that, the adventure began—full of airport lounges with diaper changes, warm bottles during long layovers, rocking her up and down aeroplane aisles to lull her to sleep. And in between the chaos, there were moments of awe: like watching her little eyes widen as we drove through Bali, past towering statues on the roundabouts that she looked at in wonder.We arrived at our hotel, surrounded by endless green rice fields. I made a quick meal for my mother and baby, and then opened Google Maps to check how far we were from the Bali Spirit Festival—the real reason I had come this far.The festival, nestled in the spiritual heart of Ubud, is a celebration of yoga, music, mantra, and movement. It’s alive with seekers from across the globe, and it holds everything I had longed for since becoming a mother..What I didn’t anticipate as I walked to this festival was the inner tug-of-war that would unfold. The quiet battle between being present for my child and being present for myself. I remember sitting in a yoga class, heart racing not from the breathwork, but from guilt, thinking, ‘Was she okay? Did she need me? Should I just leave? Will the teacher think I am weird if I leave?’ And then there were softer moments. Moments of knowing, of realising that taking an hour for myself didn’t make me a lesser mother. In fact, it made me more grounded, more present. I was lucky to have my mother with us. Three generations of women travelling together. Her quiet strength created space, not just for her granddaughter, but for me too.While she watched over my baby, I sat and made my little girl flower crowns, performed fire and water ceremonies, and participated in numerous yoga classes. I’d return to our little guesthouse with sore feet and a full heart, only to find my baby fast asleep in my mother’s arms. That image—of them together—has stayed with me. It reminds me that motherhood doesn’t have to be a solitary climb. Sometimes, it’s a lineage. A chain of women holding one another up..Bali held me gently in ways I didn’t expect. Maybe it was the Canang sari offerings placed lovingly at every doorstep, or the incense in the air even in the middle of traffic, or the easy warmth of the people.The island helped me to slow my anxious mind. There was nothing to chase, nowhere I had to be. That kind of spaciousness provided much-needed healing for my mind, which was cluttered with a million things to do for my baby.Yes, there were moments I missed. Workshops I couldn’t attend, conversations I cut short, invitations I declined because my baby needed me. But there were also magical, unplanned moments—a local woman blessing my daughter’s feet at a temple, or singing lullabies barefoot in a circle of women under the night sky. These moments weren’t on the itinerary. But maybe they were the most important part of the trip.Now that I’m home, I carry more than just memories. I carry trust. Trust in the balance I’m slowly learning to hold, between giving and receiving. Motherhood isn’t about disappearing. And travel isn’t about escape. Sometimes, it’s about bringing your full, messy, magical life with you—baby, mother, doubts, dreams and all.