There’s something sacred about a suitcase half-packed and a playlist that starts with longing. For me, travel has always been both an escape and a reckoning. It’s the act of physically moving through space while emotionally sifting through the weight I’ve carried from place to place—from a trailer in West Texas to a crowded train in New York, from hotel rooms I managed to hotel rooms where I tried to sleep off my sadness.
I used to think travel was about getting away. Now I know it’s about getting closer—to truth, to healing, to people, and sometimes, to yourself.
When I took that solo trip to Hawaii right after my 40th birthday, I was clawing at the walls of heartbreak. I was alone in a place built for couples and Instagram sunsets. And yet, every day, I woke up and moved forward. I hiked cliffs with trembling knees and sat quietly with palm trees that didn’t care if I was grieving. I swam in cold, salty water that didn’t ask for anything except presence. I walked 30 miles that week—alone—but not lonely. There was something profound in having no one to perform for. No one to filter my experience through. No one to pretend I wasn’t hurting. Just me, my thoughts, my blisters, and the strange comfort of being invisible in paradise.
That trip gave me a strange kind of strength. I didn’t find joy there—I earned it.
Fast-forward a few months, and I was on another road trip—this time not alone. This time with Matthew, Shelby, and Melissa—my chosen family. We drove from Abilene to San Francisco, winding through redwoods, desert highways, and places so bizarre we still joke about Uranus Fudge Factory. (Yes, that’s real. No, I’m not over it.) This time, I wasn’t aching to be unseen. I wanted to be seen. I wanted to share every weird roadside stop and breathtaking overlook. I wanted to watch Matthew see things for the first time, like he was collecting memories in his smile.
And I realized something that surprised me: travel had become less about running away from myself and more about running toward the people who make life feel bearable.
But here’s the thing. Travel also changes the way you see people—and sometimes, that’s not comfortable. Being stuck in a car with someone for 10 hours will teach you things therapy never could. You learn who needs snacks every 45 minutes, who can’t navigate to save their life, and who hums the same three notes over and over until you consider launching yourself out the window. You learn who you can be silent with. Who matches your chaos. Who makes the hours disappear. You learn who you love in motion—and who only makes sense standing still.
There’s a paradox in all of it. Travel connects us by pulling us out of the familiar, but it also disconnects us—from control, from routine, from whatever mask we wear at home. You can’t be the perfectly curated version of yourself when your luggage is lost and you’re crying in the Newark airport Chili’s. You can’t be aloof and emotionally unavailable when you’re stuck in a cabin with someone who knows how many creams you take in your coffee. The road demands truth. And the best people? They meet you there.
Matthew meets me there. He sees me at my worst—hangry, carsick, rambling about where we should stop for the night—and still reaches for my hand. He makes travel feel like coming home. And that’s not something I say lightly. When you’ve built your life around survival, “home” is a concept you have to rebuild from scratch. But with him, in motion or not, it’s starting to take shape.
So no, travel isn’t just therapy. It’s confrontation. It’s joy. It’s grief. It’s a cracked-open mirror that shows you everything—especially the parts you’ve tried to leave behind. And it’s worth it every time.
Even when the hotel has no hot water. Even when the GPS leads you into a cornfield. Even when you miss the damn exit and have to loop back another twenty miles.
Because on the road, you get to choose who you become. And if you’re lucky, you’ll do it alongside people who choose you right back—no matter where you’re headed.