I have read about families spending fortunes on trips across Europe and Asia, only to sit years later in a quiet room where a loved one no longer remembers any of it because of Alzheimer’s disease. That contrast is jarring, almost cruel. It makes me question whether we have misunderstood what memories are worth in the first place.

I cannot ignore how modern travel has been sold to us like a cure for an invisible emptiness. Flights are booked, itineraries packed, cameras always ready—as if the act of going somewhere automatically guarantees a meaningful life. I have watched people chase destinations the way others chase promotions, ticking countries off a list with the same urgency. But the promise behind it all—that these moments will last forever—quietly collapses in the face of a disease that erases even the most vivid recollections.

The uncomfortable truth is that memory is not a vault; it is fragile, biological, and ultimately unreliable. No amount of spending can prevent it from decaying. When Alzheimer’s enters the picture, it does not politely skip over Paris sunsets or island-hopping adventures. It takes everything with equal indifference—names, faces, places, even the self that once experienced them. That reality strips travel of its supposed permanence and exposes how temporary those “once-in-a-lifetime” moments really are.

And yet, I do not think the issue is travel itself. I enjoy movement, new places, unfamiliar food, and the small thrill of being lost in a city that does not know me. The problem is the belief that these experiences are investments in memory, as if we are depositing joy into a secure account we can withdraw from later. Alzheimer’s disease reminds me that there is no such account. What we call “lasting memories” are, at best, fleeting arrangements of neurons that can vanish without warning.

There is also a quiet irony here: in trying so hard to preserve memories, we often fail to live them fully. I have seen travelers more concerned with getting the perfect photo than actually feeling the moment. Phones are raised before emotions can even register. It is as if the proof of experience matters more than the experience itself. But when memory fades, those photos become meaningless artifacts—images without context, smiles without recognition.

Still, I hesitate to dismiss everything as futile. Even if memories do not last, experiences shape us in ways that are not entirely dependent on recall. A person who has traveled, loved, and lived deeply may carry subtle changes—patience, openness, humor—that persist even when specific memories disappear. Alzheimer’s may erase details, but it does not always erase the emotional imprints left on others. Families remember. Friends remember. The world holds traces of who we were, even when we cannot.

This is where my thinking shifts. Perhaps the value of travel should not rest on what I will remember decades from now, but on what it does to me—and to others—right now. A shared meal, a conversation with a stranger, a quiet appreciation of a place: these do not need to be permanent to be meaningful. They exist fully in the moment, and maybe that is enough. Expecting permanence from something as delicate as memory feels like asking the sea to hold its shape.

I no longer see travel as a guarantee of lasting memories, but as a chance to live honestly while I still can. Spend, yes—but not in blind faith that the future will preserve everything. Spend in a way that values presence over proof, connection over collection. Because in the end, what may outlast memory is not the trip itself, but the way I chose to live while I was there.

LET’S hope that more and more of us get familiar with this freedom of spirit which is actually the true freedom meant for us. It’s not a freedom that is guided only by our own estimation that is steered only by our reason, by some social trends and ideologies, and much less by our animal instincts and urges.

To arrive at this knowledge about our true freedom which is the freedom of spirit, we need to ask ourselves the existential questions of where we came from, what the meaning and purpose of our life are, etc. For this, we just have to go from the natural and social sciences and to launch into the philosophical, metaphysical and theological.

This freedom of spirit is where we act in accord with God’s truth and goodness. It is exercised at the instance of the promptings of the Holy Spirit. Our freedom is not simply the power to act or not to act, and so to perform deliberate acts of our own. Our freedom attains its perfection when directed toward God, the sovereign Good, from whom we come and to whom we are destined to share in his very life and nature.

This is the freedom that was won for us by Christ who redeemed us from the bondage of sin. That is why St. Paul said: “For freedom Christ has set us free.” (Gal 5,1) And it is in Christ that we share in the truth that would set us free, as again articulated by St. Paul in his Second Letter to the Corinthians where he said: “Where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom.” (3,17)

This is the kind of freedom that springs from an inner habit of virtue and not merely from some external command. This is when we do things under the guidance of the Holy Spirit and doing it willingly, with our whole heart.

This can only mean that our true freedom is the result of our docility to the promptings of the Holy Spirit, the promptings of the grace of God, making us free and effective collaborators in God’s continuing work of human redemption that would complete our creation by him. Our freedom is not meant only to achieve an earthly and temporal goal.
In other words, this freedom of spirit enables us to grow in docility to God’s grace, and to collaborate freely with God, serving others with love and building a society on the basis of truth, justice and charity. It also protects us from the slavery of sin, from worldly pressures and false liberties that lead to license.

We can have this freedom of spirit if we live by faith in God. It is made alive especially through the sacraments—Baptism, Penance and the Holy Eucharist. It is nurtured in prayer and the continuous growth of the virtues.

The role of prayer is crucial because that is where we can discern and embrace God’s will. St. Paul, in his Letter to the Romans, said in effect in this regard that we must pray to be able truly to know what God wants. (cfr. 8,27)

It’s clear that this freedom of spirit is a matter of being docile to the promptings of grace. It is what perfects our natural freedom, aligning it with the will and the ways of God. It’s important that we form our conscience according to the truths of our faith. For this, a lifelong formation of conscience is needed. Our freedom of conscience should be the freedom of spirit!