The Long Drive Home
A breakup, a car full of snacks, and the road back to someone I used to know.
Dear friend,
If you’ve been following along on Instagram stories, you’ve seen glimpses of the cross-country drive I’ve been on: the kitschy road stops, the surreal landscapes (the mountains, holy shit), and the little detours I let myself take just because I could.
I’ve dreamed of a trip like this for as long as I can remember. I just didn’t imagine it unfolding quite like this: grieving a breakup while driving across the country to rebuild my life from scratch (again).
On IG, I’ve been sharing the fun stuff: the cute hotels, how I pack my car fridge (seriously), and snapshots of the kitschy stops I’ve passed through.But there’s another layer to this trip that doesn’t feel as easy to share on social media.
There’s been plenty of joy, but also a quiet undercurrent of grief that catches me off guard. It flares up in little unsuspecting moments: the middle of a song, a stretch of empty road, while waiting in line to pay for a Clif Bar at a janky gas station convenience store.
One minute I’ll feel untouchably free, like I’m reclaiming my life. The next, I’m hit with a wave of sadness so sharp it knocks the wind out of me.
In this week’s newsletter, I’m writing from that weird liminal space where everything is technically moving forward, but emotionally, you’re still sorting through the wreckage. I don’t have a grand takeaway, just a few thoughts from the driver’s seat about what it feels like to finally let go of a life that offered comfort and stability but didn’t sit right in my gut.
This road trip has been a slow, quiet kind of reclaiming. As always, I’m honored you are here and hope you enjoy it.
By the time the movers loaded the last box from the space that was once ours, I was emotionally flattened. Not just from the logistical chaos of a cross-country move or the rushed goodbyes to Portland. I was tired of pretending.
Tired of tiptoeing around the truth. Tired of lying to myself and losing touch with who I was. I spent months contorting myself into someone who tried so hard to be optimistic and grateful, all while ignoring what my body already knew.
When the truck pulled away and I climbed into my car to begin the long drive east, I felt a disorienting sense of relief. Like my nervous system could finally exhale after months of holding its breath.
I’d been gripping tightly to a version of life I thought I should want without noticing how far I’d drifted from myself. Letting go was terrifying. But it was also the most honest thing I’d done in a long time.
I decided the road trip wouldn’t be about escape because, honestly, I’ve spent most of my life escaping. Into substances. Into people. Into work. Into whatever would keep me from sitting still with myself for too long.
But this time, I didn’t want to numb it or outrun it. I wanted to face it all head-on. The road trip wouldn’t be an exit strategy. It would be a return. To New York, yes, but more importantly, to myself. To my instincts. To the version of myself I’d been too tired and tangled to hear.