The middle of nowhere, alone, might be the best place to discover yourself. The only sounds you hear are the occasional birds, perhaps some sunset crickets if you’re lucky, and the wind, which can be soothing unless the gusts rattle your eardrums and blow snippets of hair into your eyes. Somewhere in the distance, the faint echo of your own voice ricochets off a cactus. It’s the kind of quiet that leaves you no choice but to have an awkward conversation with yourself about who you actually are and where it all went wrong. Or maybe you’re perfect and nothing ever went wrong, and you can just find pictures of cats in the clouds, IDK.
I lived several lifetimes during those two years of traveling alone. When no one’s around, you get the rare luxury of picking apart your past without interruption. There’s time to mourn the soulmates who drifted away — not that it had much to do with you. People change. I’ve heard it said, and I believe, that people come and go or just pass through for a reason. They come in and out to offer an opportunity to learn or to grow. But clinging too closely to something that isn’t working isn’t healthy.
In the silence you find space. And that space allows your thoughts to expand and accept and to let go. Letting go is an art form. You have to be bold and realize that you’re enough; you don’t have to please everybody.
You’ll let go of the family drama — the kind that never seemed to stop at just one holiday event. Then there’s the criticism from people whose primary goal was to elevate themselves by squashing you underfoot, and worse still, the so-called friends who smiled to your face as they sharpened their blades behind your back. And those friends — oh, so many! From this distance their jealousy and small-mindedness becomes glaringly obvious. How much you might have achieved together if they hadn’t been so busy trying to outmaneuver you. What a waste.
You release the bosses and clients who criticized you not because you were wrong, but because you didn’t tell them what they wanted to hear. You reflect on the opportunities you didn’t seize, the ones that looked too risky at the time but now seem like glaring missed chances. And you can even let go of the missteps that landed you in the ER. Shit happens and now your arm doesn’t work the same but, it’s just an arm.
Still, even with all the regrets, there’s a quiet pride. Because if nothing else, you made it through, bruised but intact, and in a strange way, that’s a win.
When the world gets quiet, that’s when the rewrites begin. You get to tell your story, without the distractions, and find new meaning in all the ugly bits. I once cried in a public restroom, only to get some oddly profound advice from a stranger tapping on the stall door. “Honey, is this about a man?” She had advice. I took it. And I was better for it.
I spent years trying to repair relationships with family members who, in the end, weren’t worth the effort. But it took years of tears to figure that out. Still, I’m a better person now because of it. Sometimes you have to shed the weight of what you thought was necessary to realize it was only holding you back. It takes courage just to get up each day. Guts are required when the universe seems hell-bent on keeping you down.
During those two years I talked to myself constantly, and not in the metaphorical sense. I would answer myself, too. Sometimes my advice seemed like it came from a narcissistic former lover. Other times, it came from an angel. There was a time I tried praying, like my father would have, but found it didn’t work for me. Then I tried smudging the trailer, which felt more performative than practical. It wasn’t until later that I realized it wasn’t about the rituals themselves — it was about what you’re willing to act on, what you’re willing to let go of, and what you’re finally ready to embrace.
During those 600-plus nights alone, my life played out like an indie film — some of it in black and white, some of it with subtitles, all of it drenched in symbolism, some of which I’m sure I misinterpreted. I remembered my father’s unwavering devotion to his church, and though I never shared his passion, I had to admit it instilled a certain independence in me. If I were going to survive, it was clear that it would be on my own terms.
I became wild. Then I became wise. Resilience crept up on me, originally disguised as arrogance, though it wasn’t about feeling superior to anyone — it was about knowing, with certainty, that I stood alone. And in the end, that was enough. No big family or circle of friends to rely on. Just me, a folding chair, and a desert that didn’t care whether I stayed or left. Independence, at that moment, was as liberating as it was terrifying.
So, there I was, slunk in that cheap folding chair I got at a garage sale, staring at the stars — pretending I could identify more than just the Big Dipper — and listening to the coyotes in the distance. What struck me was the realization that if anything was going to change, it was up to me. Just me, against the silent desert, against myself.
From fear to love — that’s the journey, they say. And they’re probably right. Over two years I touched places all over the U.S., but more importantly, those places touched me. From the cliffs of Big Sur to the yellow fields of the Midwest to the noise of eastern urban life, each landscape shaped me a little more for the better.