One of the most meaningful topics I bring to the stage as a keynote speaker on travel and culture is the importance of cultural connection and global citizenship. Traveling to every country in the world has given me a deep understanding of empathy, respect, and responsibility across borders.
In today’s world, never before have we had such an extraordinary opportunity to connect with people from every corner of the globe. These connections matter because they build compassion and peace, and they also reveal to us about ourselves.
In 2022, I had the honor of speaking at the inaugural Extraordinary Travel Festival in Yerevan, Armenia. My talk, Finding Your Travel Superpower, invited audiences to reflect on how they connect authentically with people they meet along the road.
Speaking at the Extraordinary Travel Festival in Yerevan, Armenia in 2022
Some travelers connect through language or accents. Others lean on sports, music, or art as bridges across cultures. My own “travel superpower” is the ability to blend in: slipping into the rhythm of a place by donning local dress, learning the everyday tasks of women in the community, and engaging in dance and movement. Over the years, this chameleon-like ability has opened doors and hearts, allowing me to form bonds that transcend words.
Three generations of Matses women in the Peruvian AmazonDancing with the Mundari women in Terekeka, South Sudan
A Lesson from the Jaguar People
One of the most profound stories I share, both in my speaking and in my upcoming travel memoir, The World Is My Mirror (launching November 1, 2025), comes from my time with the Matsés people of the Peruvian Amazon.
Known as the “Jaguar People” for their whisker-like facial tattoos and jaguar-inspired body markings, the Matsés were isolated until their first documented contact with the outside world in 1969. When I visited, I was welcomed into the home of a Matsés family who had preserved much of their culture despite globalization. I watched their daily routines, learned about their traditional knowledge of medicinal plants, and joined in the tasks that sustain their way of life.
That connection was more than cultural exchange. It was a mirror, reflecting back to me the universality of family, resilience, and the human desire for continuity. This story is told in one of the most moving chapters of The World Is My Mirror, and I bring it to life in my talks on global citizenship, indigenous connection, and cultural empathy.
Gathering resin from barks of copal trees in the Amazon forestHarvesting and making facial whiskers with the Matses women
Why Travel Matters
Why do we travel? Beyond sightseeing, travel is about relationships, growth, and engagement. It is a chance to learn new skills, discover new perspectives, and move closer to our own humanity. Each authentic cultural connection teaches us compassion, dissolves prejudice, and builds bridges across divides.
In my talks, I encourage audiences to search for their own travel superpower—the unique way they can engage and connect with others. Whether through language, music, food, sports, or art, we all have the ability to reach across cultures and discover common ground. When we do, our shared humanity emerges.
Sorting out harvests with the Karen people of Northern Thailand
Speaking to Inspire Global Citizenship
As a motivational speaker on cultural diversity and global connection, I bring these stories to conferences, universities, and events around the world. My talks on cultural connection, women’s empowerment through travel, and education as a passport to opportunity invite people to see travel as more than movement across geography. It is movement toward empathy, understanding, and personal growth.
As I share in The World Is My Mirror, each journey has shown me that the world reflects back who we are and who we might become. The deeper we connect with others, the more fully we connect with ourselves.
Two months ago, I sat once again at the bedside of a loved one who would soon take her final breath. My grandmother, Lola Betty, passed away twelve years after my mother, her eldest daughter and my fiercest protector, died. I had been with them both in their final days, bearing witness to what the body remembers and what the soul longs for as life ebbs away.
When my mother was nearing the end, her voice grew faint, almost childlike, as she called out “Mame,” her word for mommy. She was reaching for her own mother. Years later, as Lola Betty drifted toward the same horizon, her fading eyes seemed to see my mother waiting, and she whispered after her. Mother and daughter, still bound to each other even as the veil closed in.
It made me wonder: in the most vulnerable moment of our lives, who do we call for?
The Psychology of Our Last Calls
Psychologists say that in the final moments of life, the mind often reverts to its deepest imprints. The subconscious strips away pretenses, careers, possessions, even the roles we think define us. What rises instead are the primal bonds— the people who gave us safety, devotion, and meaning.
To call for a mother, a father, or a beloved partner near the end is not regression. It is return. It is the psyche’s way of reaching back to the wellspring of love that sustained us. Neurologists even suggest that the dying brain sometimes produces vivid hallucinations or visions of loved ones gone before. Whether those visions are biochemical or spiritual, they comfort. They remind us that we were once held, once loved, and never fully alone.
My Mother, My Grandmother, and Me
My relationship with my Lola Betty had never been easy. As a child, I exhausted her. I disappeared into the trees and the streets when she wanted me safe at home. I refused her rosary prayers, uninterested in the beauty rituals she clung to. I was dark-skinned, unlike the fair-skinned, god-fearing grandchildren she favored.
But when my mother died, a new tenderness emerged between us. My grandmother began clinging to my arm in a way she never had before, her eyes softening with an affection I had not known. She looked at me and, in some way, saw her lost daughter. That bond of devotion, the same devotion my mother had shown her siblings and her widowed mother, flowed toward me in those final years. Through grief, she reached for connection, and I became her vessel for continuity.
Devotion was their inheritance, passed from my grandmother to my mother, and from both of them, imperfectly yet indelibly, into the life of our family. It was a devotion to kin above self. It was why my mother set aside her own dreams to support her husband and children. And it was why my grandmother endured widowhood for half a century with enduring strength, raising all eight of her children on her own.
My grandmother with my mother at her college graduation in the early 1980s
Who Will I Call?
Watching them both, I began to ask myself: who would I call for in my own final days?
I suspect it will be my mother. Despite our conflicts, she is the one who fiercely protected me, who carried the weight of our family, who modeled devotion with a strength that has become the backbone of my own life. Her death shook me so deeply that it set me on the global journey I now recount in my memoir, The World Is My Mirror, a journey that became as much about geography and the landscapes I crossed as it was about healing, reinvention, and finding home within myself.
Perhaps, in my last moments, I too will call out for her. This would not be a sign of unfinished growth, but a return to the one whose devotion made me.
With my Lola Betty in our family ancestral home in Lipa City, Batangas
The Thread That Remains
To be at the bedside of the dying is to witness the letting go of all that is superficial. What remains is not the tally of achievements or possessions, but the thread of human connection. We reach instinctively for those who shaped us, even if through pain, conflict, or imperfect love.
So when we ask, “Who do we seek in our deathbeds?” the answer is both simple and profound. We seek the person who embodied devotion to us, the one whose presence reassured us that we mattered. That presence may be mother, father, grandparent, lover, child, or God. It may be someone who has long departed, but whose imprint is etched into our very sense of self.
In the end, death is not only a departure. It is a return.
And so I leave you with this question: when your own final days come, whose name will you whisper? Who will you seek?
In March 2016, I found myself in the kind of place most maps barely bother to name—an island within a jungle, within a park, within a little-known corner of Cameroon. I had joined three friends—Thomas, John, and Roberto—for an offbeat expedition to a remote area of Campo Ma’an National Park known as Dipikar Island.
Our goal? To witness something extraordinary: wild West African Lowland Gorillas being slowly habituated to humans.
We began in the coastal town of Limbe, where we set off at dawn in a rumbling 1985 Toyota Corolla 4WD station wagon driven by our local guide, Ben. The first day took us through the sticky sprawl of Douala, Cameroon’s commercial heartbeat, and then the seaside calm of Kribi, where we paused at a cascading waterfall. By dusk, we had reached Campo, a raw, dusty village situated just outside the boundaries of the national park, near its westernmost edge. The village lies along a main river that separates Cameroon from Equatorial Guinea. Here, a small population of native pygmies live under a fragile agreement with the government: protect the land, and they will be protected in return.
Campo had one potholed street, a scattering of wooden shops, and—unexpectedly—a lively bar ringed with plastic chairs and shaded by a tin roof. We settled into a barebones hostel, rinsed off the road dust, and shared cold beers and omelets under the humid night sky with Ben and Simeon, our local contact. It was a simple joy before plunging into the unknown.
The next morning, we were stirred awake by the shrill hum of cigar insects, louder than any alarm clock. After a quick supply run, we set out again—this time, headed for Dipikar Island, a dense, river-bound tract of jungle that seemed untouched by time. As we passed the faded sign for Parc National de Campo-Ma’an, the road gave way to a single-lane dirt path snaking through thick green. We followed a park ranger named Wilfred, who rode ahead on a motorcycle, camouflaged nearly to invisibility in his green uniform. Slung across his back was a collapsible .76 caliber rifle—an uneasy reminder that we were entering wild territory.
As we drove deeper, the light began to disappear—not because the sun had set, but because the jungle swallowed it. Trees wove thick canopies overhead, casting the path into a dusk-like dimness. At a final wooden bridge, we locked the car and crossed on foot. That’s when we met the Elephant Tree.
It rose from the forest floor like a guardian of centuries, a 200-year-old baobab tree with massive, buttressed roots that seemed to walk on their own. Tribal carvings marked its surface—herringbone patterns, geometric designs, and a massive elephant painted directly onto one of its roots by a local artist named Moise Mimb Billong. I tilted my head to find the top of the tree but couldn’t see it. It simply vanished into the canopy, ancient and unknowable.
Beyond the Elephant Tree, a sign leaned against a nearby baobab: Attention!! Zone Contrôlée par Les Caméras Pieges—a warning that motion-sensor cameras watched from the trees. We walked the remaining 4.3 kilometers into the heart of the jungle, packs on our backs, sweat dripping from our temples. The heat was thick and punishing, the air heavy with moisture and unseen life.
At last, we reached a small clearing that served as a temporary field station—a makeshift camp for researchers, gorilla trackers, forest workers, and conservationists. Tarpaulins stretched over wooden poles offered some shelter, while blue and black containers lined up beside cooking pots and metal pans. Clothes fluttered on a line strung between trees. A woman and man rested quietly in the shade, taking a break from work. This wasn’t just a camp. It was the beating heart of Project Gorilla Humanisation.
From 2011 to 2017, the World Wide Fund for Nature had funded this ambitious experiment: to habituate the gorillas on Dipikar Island—32 of them in total, forming two family groups—to tolerate human presence. The aim wasn’t just scientific. It was strategic and hopeful. If the gorillas could learn to trust, the area could one day host gorilla-watching tourism, bringing income to local communities and reducing the threat of poaching. But none of this would be possible without the slow, quiet labor of trust.
And trust, I would learn, cannot be forced. It must be earned—one breath, one presence, one patient return at a time.
That night, the jungle came alive. Hornbills with extravagant casques flitted across the canopy. Colobus monkeys chattered from the trees, though they never revealed themselves. The insect called “the Cigar”—a large cousin of the cicada—shrilled endlessly like an avian alarm.
At dawn, the trackers rose before us. By 9 a.m., news crackled through the short-wave radio: the gorillas had been spotted—just three kilometers from camp, toward the Equatorial Guinea border. We began our approach with anticipation humming through our bodies.
The plan was simple. Two or three trackers went first to reduce noise. Then we followed. We hiked through thick underbrush, then split into small groups to approach more quietly. And suddenly—it began.
From the thickets came a sudden chorus of guttural grunts and sharp hoots, followed by high-pitched screeches that pierced through the dense air. The jungle pulsed with movement. Branches shook. Leaves flew. Shapes darted through the green. The trackers beat their chests and slapped the ground—signaling territorial challenge, mimicking what dominant males do. “The ground slap,” one tracker explained, “means ‘I make a house here.’” The alpha males did not like that.
The forest exploded in sound and tension. We didn’t see all of them clearly, but we knew they were close. Six individuals—two families, including a giant alpha male and his son. The gorillas were always hiding. When we approached, they screamed and rushed from cover—but never fully revealed themselves. It felt like a dangerous game of peekaboo. Terrifying. Thrilling. And unforgettable.
We weren’t there to conquer the wild. We were there to witness the possibility that even something wild could one day learn to trust.
Later, back at camp, I sat under the tarp shelter, watching smoke curl up from the fire pit, and thought about the quiet miracle unfolding here. For years, these gorillas had been conditioned to run, to charge, to fear. And yet, simply by being present—by returning daily without harm—humans had slowly reshaped that fear. By 2018, 60% of the gorillas’ reactions to humans were neutral or even curious. Behavior, even deep-rooted instinct, could evolve.
That was the lesson I didn’t know I needed.
If a wild animal—primed by nature and evolution to avoid us—could slowly open to the unfamiliar, what did that say about me? About us?
How many paths do we never take simply because they feel foreign? How many parts of ourselves stay hidden, snarling and defensive, simply because no one has stayed long enough to build trust?
What Dipikar showed me is this: when we step into the unknown, the wild, or even the scary—not with force, but with presence—we begin to change. And so does the unknown.
Not every new path will lead somewhere. But if something pulls at you, intrigues you, won’t let you go—maybe the first step is simply to keep showing up. Let it see you. Let yourself be seen. And in time, what once screamed and ran might stay still long enough for you to glimpse something extraordinary.
If you’ve just discovered this blog, welcome. I didn’t set out with the goal of exploring every country in the world—not at first. What began as a break from a long career in science and intellectual property management gradually turned into a deeper journey of healing, rediscovery, and ultimately, transformation. Over time, one step led to another, and I found myself walking a path that spanned continents—and reshaped my life in ways I never expected.
This site is where I bring together three strands of my life’s work:
After years of walking unfamiliar roads and navigating inner crossroads, I’m thrilled to finally share my story in full. The World Is My Mirror is a deeply personal memoir about midlife reinvention through travel. It follows my journey around the world—not just as a record of places, but as a reflection of a woman transforming from within.
This book is for anyone who has ever wondered, “Is it too late to change?”
Anyone who has felt stuck in life.
Anyone quietly longing for more meaning, freedom, or a renewed sense of self.
I’ll be sharing updates here as we approach the launch later this year, along with exclusive behind-the-scenes moments and stories that didn’t make it into the final pages.
The Mission: Reinvention Through Travel
This platform was born from the belief that travel can be a profound tool for personal transformation—and for social change.
I don’t mean luxury vacations or escape itineraries.
I mean the kind of travel that slows you down, strips away your assumptions, and lets you see the world—and yourself—with new eyes.
Here, I’ll be writing about what I’ve learned from the road, how I rebuilt my life after letting go of an old one, and how you, too, can use travel as a path to rediscover who you are and what you’re here to do.
Whether you’re navigating a transition, rebuilding after burnout, or simply feeling the stirrings of change—I hope you’ll find wisdom, encouragement, and real tools here.
The Movement: From Solo Journey to Global Community
One of the most unexpected gifts of my travels was discovering that I wasn’t alone. That there were others—Filipinos and global citizens—seeking not just adventure, but purpose.
That’s what led to the creation of the Philippine Global Explorers, now the largest national travel club in the world. What began as a casual gathering of like-minded travelers has evolved into a community committed to giving back—supporting education, environmental conservation, heritage, and culture in local communities across the Philippines.
In time, I’ll share more about this movement, and what it means to lead with impact—whether in your hometown or halfway across the globe.
What to Expect From This Blog
Every few weeks, I’ll be sharing:
Personal stories from my global journey
Lessons on reinvention, resilience, and finding meaning through change
Reflections on leading with purpose and creating impact in local communities
If any of this speaks to you, I hope you’ll stay connected – and sign up to Journey With Me for occasional updates on the book launch and upcoming events and travels.
You can also follow along on social media, where I’ll be posting reflections from the road, behind-the-scenes glimpses, and thoughts on living a life of meaning beyond borders.
This is more than the start of a new chapter.
It’s the unfolding of a shared journey.
Let’s take it one step at a time—honestly, openly, and with a willingness to grow.
Journey with me
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At the time, I had what most people would call a successful life—on paper. Nearly two decades of work in science and intellectual property management. A 17-year corporate career. A home in the United States. A marriage. The kind of life that looks complete from the outside. But inside, something had quietly begun to fray.
It wasn’t one dramatic moment that unraveled it all. It was a slow, silent hollowing. Grief after the death of my mother. A quiet estrangement from my own spirit. The sense that I had followed all the rules, achieved everything I was supposed to—and still, something was missing.
In 2015, I made a decision that would change everything.
I walked away.
From the structure, the certainty, and the version of success I had known for so long.
Not to escape.
But to consciously step into the unknown.
What began as a brief pause turned, over time, into a decade-long journey that took me across all seven continents and, ultimately, every country in the world.
I didn’t just pass through places. I let them shape me.
I lived with tribes in the Amazon, danced barefoot in Burundi, wandered silent temples in Bhutan, and drove alone across deserts where I couldn’t hear anything but my breath.
And somewhere along the way, something quietly stirred.
I didn’t just visit places. I let them change me.
I began to find parts of myself I had long buried—or never known at all.
This website, and my upcoming memoir The World Is My Mirror, were born from that journey. Not just the physical one, but the inner one that asked me to reconsider who I had become—and who I still had the chance to be.
Through travel, I learned that reinvention isn’t a single act.
It’s not about abandoning your life.
It’s about slowly rediscovering who you are when the roles, titles, and expectations fall away.
It’s about staying open long enough—for meaning, clarity, or purpose to find you.
If you’re here because you’re navigating a midlife shift, seeking renewal, or just wondering what comes next—you’re not alone. I created this space for people like us.
In the coming months, I’ll be sharing stories, reflections, and lessons on reinvention, personal courage, and creating tangible social impact through travel and community-focused leadership.
This is the beginning of a new chapter—for me, and perhaps for you too.
I’m glad you’re here.
If my story resonates with something stirring in you—
If you’re standing at your own crossroads, seeking renewal, meaning, or simply permission to begin again—
I invite you to walk with me.
Sign up to Journey with Me below to receive updates on the book launch and upcoming events and travels.
Let’s explore what becomes possible when we dare to begin again.
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ABOUT
Dr. Riza Rasco is a scientist-turned-global explorer, author, and advocate for women’s leadership and social impact through travel. She’s visited all 203 countries and now leads organizations and speaks globally on purposeful travel, reinvention, and impact-driven leadership.
