The Adventure Awaits
Welcome back, lovelies and beaus, to another beautiful Monday! Whether you’re here with a cup of coffee in hand or squeezing in a quick read during your busy day, I’m so glad you’ve returned.
Last week, in “Tale of Two Lives,” I opened up about some deeply personal experiences—heartbreak, losing friendships, and even feeling let down by those closest to me. If you missed it, you can catch up here. Trust me, it sets the stage for what’s to come.
Looking back now, the signs were all there—doubt, silence, confusion—but at the time, I couldn’t see how these small cracks would lead to something far bigger. What came next changed everything.
It’s strange how a single moment can divide time into before and after. One conversation, one revelation, and suddenly, the foundation you thought was unshakable isn’t just cracked—it’s crumbling. And the worst part? You don’t even realize it at first. You tell yourself it’s just a misunderstanding, a rough patch, something that will smooth itself out. But deep down, a part of you already knows.
The truth is, some breaks don’t come with a loud crash. Sometimes, they happen quietly—over unspoken words, unanswered calls, the weight of things left unsaid. And when you finally understand what’s happening, you’re already standing in the ruins.
Let me take you back to where my story left off…
Before I begin, I want to say that this is one of the hardest posts I’ve ever written. Although this experience took place last summer, there are aspects I’ve kept to myself until now. Not because I wanted to, but because no one in my support system could truly grasp the magnitude of what happened.
Maybe it was easier for them to believe I was being dramatic. Maybe they had already decided what must have transpired, shaping their own version of events before I ever had the chance to explain. Either way, when I tried to be transparent—when I laid my emotions bare and spoke my truth—no one really listened. Not in the way I needed them to.
And so, I stopped trying. Until now.
Now, I’m sharing my experience with the world because I need to express it—not for validation or attention, but because the very people I thought would be there for me simply weren’t. I need to let go of this situation, and the only way I know how is by talking it out, by putting it into words, by releasing it from the space it’s occupied in my heart for far too long.
So here we go.
Life has a funny way of surprising us, doesn’t it? Just when I least expected it, the best opportunity opened up—the trip of a lifetime.
For years, I’d dreamed of a trip like this, imagining what it would be like to finally be part of the moments I had only heard about. I’d seen the photos, listened to the stories, and wondered if I would ever get the chance to create memories of my own. But life had other plans. Timing was never right, circumstances always got in the way, and for one reason or another, I always found myself watching from a distance.
But then came 2024. Out of nowhere, everything started to align. My schedule finally opened up, and as if by fate, the opportunity presented itself. For the first time, I wasn’t just an observer—I was stepping into an experience I had longed for.
What I didn’t realize then was that some things look different up close. That the past and present don’t always merge as seamlessly as we hope.
At the time, I told myself this trip would be a chance to reconnect, to build something stronger. But looking back, I wonder if the cracks had already been there, waiting for the right moment to show themselves.
As the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the road, I found myself lost in thought. Road trips have a way of making you reflect—maybe it’s the endless stretch of highway or the way the world outside the window feels both vast and strangely isolating at the same time.
For now, everything felt easy. Lighthearted. Simple.
But looking back, I realize that simplicity was an illusion. There are moments in life when you don’t yet know that a chapter is closing. When you’re still laughing, still soaking in the golden hour glow, unaware that a shift is already underway.
At the time, I told myself this trip would be a fresh start, a chance to strengthen the ties that had, over the years, stretched thin in ways I didn’t fully understand. I wanted to believe that this was the moment when everything would finally come together.
But in reality, some distances can’t be measured in miles. And as we continued down the road, moving closer to our destination, I had no idea just how much further we were all about to drift apart.
Around midnight, we reached the mountainous region. Although I had been to the mountains before when I was younger, I had no memory of it. As we traveled higher and higher, the experience felt surreal—until I glanced down. What I saw made my stomach churn: tiny dots with headlights snaking along the valley floor far below.
Growing up, I loved heights. Rides like the Raging Bull, V2, and Giant Drop were my favorites at Six Flags. Back then, I couldn't get enough of the thrill. But now, I realized I was no longer that fearless child. The height suddenly terrified me. To make matters worse, we were driving on a narrow, two-lane road with barely any room for error. My mind raced with possibilities—what if another car came speeding around a corner or drifted too wide? It wasn’t about doubting the driver; I trusted them completely. But on a road so tight, safety also depended on the other drivers’ abilities. With every twist and turn, a pit formed in my stomach. All I knew is that I couldn’t wait to reach our destination.
By 1 a.m., we finally arrived—a parking lot in a quiet mountain town—where we caught up with the rest of the group. After transferring our belongings to the RV, we prepared for bed. But sleep didn’t come easily for me. Every time I closed my eyes, I dreamt of falling off the side of a cliff. On top of that, the air felt unfamiliar, heavy, as if it were pressing down on me. If I did manage to sleep at all, it certainly didn’t feel like it.
I woke before anyone else, finding solace in the quiet stillness of the morning. I watched the sunrise through the window, letting the calm wash over me, as if it could somehow steady the unease I couldn’t quite shake. When the others finally awoke, we made our way to a local coffee shop, trying to make the most of the day with something new, something different. The pup’s energy was a welcome distraction, a reminder of simpler joys. Meanwhile, the others took care of some necessary errands, planning for the days ahead.
And yet, even in the midst of all this, something lingered in the air—something unspoken. The distance between us wasn’t always measured in miles. It was in the subtle shifts, the quiet moments, the unacknowledged tension that settled in without any clear reason.
Around midnight, we reached the mountainous region. Although I had been to the mountains before when I was younger, I had no memory of it. As we traveled higher and higher, the experience felt surreal—until I glanced down. What I saw made my stomach churn: tiny dots with headlights snaking along the valley floor far below.
Growing up, I loved heights. Rides like the Raging Bull, V2, and Giant Drop were my favorites at Six Flags. Back then, I couldn't get enough of the thrill. But now, I realized I was no longer that fearless child. The height suddenly terrified me. To make matters worse, we were driving on a narrow, two-lane road with barely any room for error. My mind raced with possibilities—what if another car came speeding around a corner or drifted too wide? It wasn’t about doubting the driver; I trusted them completely. But on a road so tight, safety also depended on the other drivers’ abilities. With every twist and turn, a pit formed in my stomach. All I knew is that I couldn’t wait to reach our destination.
By 1 a.m., we finally arrived—a parking lot in a quiet mountain town—where we caught up with the rest of the group. After transferring our belongings to the RV, we prepared for bed. But sleep didn’t come easily for me. Every time I closed my eyes, I dreamt of falling off the side of a cliff. On top of that, the air felt unfamiliar, heavy, as if it were pressing down on me. If I did manage to sleep at all, it certainly didn’t feel like it.
I woke before anyone else, finding solace in the quiet stillness of the morning. I watched the sunrise through the window, letting the calm wash over me, as if it could somehow steady the unease I couldn’t quite shake. When the others finally awoke, we made our way to a local coffee shop, trying to make the most of the day with something new, something different. The pup’s energy was a welcome distraction, a reminder of simpler joys. Meanwhile, the others took care of some necessary errands, planning for the days ahead.
And yet, even in the midst of all this, something lingered in the air—something unspoken. The distance between us wasn’t always measured in miles. It was in the subtle shifts, the quiet moments, the unacknowledged tension that settled in without any clear reason.
Sometimes, you don’t notice the distance until it’s too late. Until you realize that something has changed and you’re not sure when it happened. And in those moments, you begin to wonder if the people you thought you knew are becoming strangers to you—and whether you might be becoming a stranger to yourself.
When they returned, we realized we needed to go even farther up the mountain. Can you guess who wasn’t thrilled? If you guessed me, you’d be absolutely right. The last thing I wanted to do was climb higher into the mountains. However, after some deliberation, we divided up: some would drive in one car, others in another, and I reluctantly joined a smaller group in the RV. The drive to the next spot was short, and we met at a halfway point where I swapped vehicles. While the rest took care of some errands, the rest of us—four adults and three pups—waited at the campsite for their return.
The day was scorching hot and sunny. We gathered around a picnic table, talking and soaking in the summer heat. I wasn’t feeling my best. Exhaustion from a sleepless night, combined with what I thought was car sickness, left me drained. So, I mostly sat quietly, listening to the conversation around me. Eventually, I retreated to the car with a friend to cool off and hydrate. The break helped, and after a while, we rejoined the group at the picnic table to continue the day.
After the RV crew returned, we spent the day together at the campsite. Later in the afternoon, we ventured into the nearby town for dinner with some friends. While some of us went off to shop, I joined a smaller group at a local restaurant. The atmosphere was warm and lively as we ordered drinks and shared appetizers. Not long after, the others joined us, and we all enjoyed catching up over the meal.
Later in the evening, a few of us decided to take a stroll through town. We admired the quaint shops and popped into a few for a closer look. Our wandering led us to a local bakery where we couldn’t resist picking up some delicious cookies. After our little adventure, we returned to the group, and on the way back, we made a quick stop at a grocery store to pick up supplies.
But when we returned to the RV, something shifted in the air. A passing comment from one of the group members stirred something deep inside me. It wasn’t meant to be anything significant, but in that moment, it triggered a flood of emotions I hadn’t expected. I quietly excused myself, slipping away from the group and seeking solitude in the car.
The moment I sat down, I lost it. Tears that had been building up for who knows how long came rushing forward. I cried, not fully understanding why—just overwhelmed by the weight of it all. I reached out hoping for some comfort, some sign that I wasn’t entirely alone.
Looking back now, I think it was a combination of exhaustion, unfamiliarity, and all the things I had been carrying. It wasn’t just the mountain air that felt suffocating—it was the weight of everything else. The nightmares, the confinement of the RV, the stress—everything had piled up and suddenly felt too heavy to bear.
As I sat there, trying to make sense of the mess inside my head, someone from the group passed by and noticed I was upset. They immediately expressed concern. I could feel their worry, but I wasn’t ready to talk. Not yet. I just needed space, a moment to breathe, and a chance to sit with my thoughts without having to explain it all.
I’ve always been someone who wears my heart on my sleeve, but there are times when I can’t even put words to what I’m feeling. Sometimes, I struggle to elaborate and make sense of it all. It takes time, sometimes days, before I can truly piece together the reason for why I’m feeling the way I do. And most often, it’s not the feelings I usually express at first. There is often a deeper reason for the emotion.
Anyway, after offering some words of encouragement, the person left to rejoin the group. I eventually made my way back into the RV, feeling emotionally spent. I went to bed that night with the hope that sleep would bring some clarity, though deep down, I had no idea what tomorrow might bring.
The next morning, I woke up feeling drained, my eyes swollen and my hair a tangled mess. I had managed to get a few more hours of sleep than the night before, but it didn’t seem to make much of a difference. The exhaustion still lingered, pressing down on me. As I sat up and tried to shake off the grogginess, I looked up symptoms of altitude sickness. Maybe it wasn’t just car sickness after all. It was starting to feel like something more—something I couldn’t quite explain, but was beginning to fear.
By midday, everyone had finally stirred and was starting to prepare for the day’s adventure—a hike up the mountain. I was excited, eager to explore, to get lost in the beauty of nature and take in the breathtaking views I’d dreamed of. But before we left, someone suggested I take some Dramamine for the lingering sickness. I hesitated; medications had never been my friend. Still, I didn’t want to seem ungrateful. I took the pill and hoped for the best.
As we made our way to the hiking spot, I could feel the familiar unease creeping in. My body felt off—heavier than usual—and it only worsened as we began the climb. I quickly realized I was underprepared. The cross-body bag I’d chosen wasn’t sturdy enough for the weight of my water bottle, so I found myself holding both awkwardly. My worn-out shoes barely gripped the rocky terrain, and every step sent a jolt of discomfort through me. The air was thick, and I found myself gasping for breath, feeling like I was suffocating with every step. Maybe it was allergies. Maybe it was something else. But as the trail climbed higher, so did my frustration.
The hike wasn’t at all like I had imagined. It wasn’t beautiful or exhilarating; it was draining, both physically and emotionally. Every few minutes, the group would pause, waiting patiently for me to catch up. It felt like a slow, painful rhythm: walk, struggle, pause. Walk, struggle, pause. It was a dance I didn’t want to be part of, but I couldn’t get out of it.
By the time we hit the halfway point, I felt like I was barely holding on. My chest tightened, and I started to feel like an outsider—like I didn’t belong in this picture of adventure, of ease. Wanting to give them space to enjoy themselves, I began walking at my own pace, pulling away from the group. It was a quiet distance, but one that felt necessary for me to breathe.
Then, I was told to stay close. Apparently, there was the possibility of bears in the area. I wasn’t sure how serious the threat was—I had passed plenty of other hikers along the way without issue—but the concern was voiced nonetheless. I kept walking, my thoughts swirling. With the dogs, bear spray, and bells hanging from backpacks, I couldn’t help but feel that if there was such an imminent danger, I should have been offered some of the same protection. But there was nothing. No extra bear spray. No bell. Just a quiet expectation that I would keep up, despite how much I was struggling.
It wasn’t just my body that felt heavy—it was the emotional weight that seemed to follow me, dragging behind every step I took. It felt as if the longer I struggled, the more disconnected I became. I wasn’t just walking up a mountain. I was walking through my own frustrations, my isolation, my sense of being invisible.
On the bright side, as we moved farther from the mining area, the air quality improved. Breathing became easier—a small relief amidst the ongoing challenges. Some of the group speculated that I might be allergic to the local pine trees, while I couldn’t shake the feeling that the real culprit was the medication I’d taken. In moments like these, though, I couldn’t help but wonder if the discomfort, the exhaustion, the physical reactions—everything—was somehow connected. A slow build-up of tension, both physical and emotional, weighing me down.
When we returned to the parking lot, we paused to take in the view. I wanted to capture the moment, to freeze it, to remind myself that beauty could still be found, even when everything else felt off. I asked a few times if anyone could take a photo of me, but no one seemed to hear me. I told myself it was just exhaustion, that my voice was too soft or they were too caught up in their own thoughts. Still, the silence stung, lingering long after.
After taking in the view, we made our way back to the campsite for lunch. I heated up some pre-made soup, trying to find comfort in the warmth of the meal. My companions, in their own way, seemed to be drifting in their own bubbles. Some decided to go bike riding, and while I was tempted to join, there were only two bikes available. When the suggestion came up to take turns, one person volunteered to sit this one out. It wasn’t a big deal, but it felt like one of those small moments where I was on the outside looking in, always trying to fit but never quite there.
The ride itself proved more challenging than I’d expected. Neither of us was particularly familiar with the gears, and the wind had picked up, making the path hillier than anticipated. After a few stops to adjust, we got the hang of it, but by then, the fatigue was too much. We headed back, feeling like we’d made an effort, but the satisfaction of accomplishment felt distant.
Once we returned and loaded the bikes back in the car, we drove around the area, hoping to find a scenic hiking trail for everyone to enjoy. But after searching for a while, we realized that nothing seemed right. The perfect spot to sit and relax, to take it all in, was just out of reach. We eventually gave up on the search and made our way back to the campsite.
That evening, a couple of the others went back into town, leaving the remaining few of us to figure out plans for the night. We made a quick trip to pick up a few items, and I offered to buy everyone coffee. When no one seemed interested, I grabbed one for myself and returned to the campsite. I suggested watching the sunset since we were leaving the next day. It wasn’t clear whose idea it was, but we ended up heading down a path near the campground. The trail led us up a hill, and from there, we noticed another path extending into the woods.
Curiosity led us further, the views growing more stunning with every step—picture-perfect horizons unfolding before us. As the sun began to dip, we made our way back down and stumbled across a quiet spot tucked off the trail, an old tree stump and scattered rocks creating a little resting place. We decided to sit there for a while, playing some music, soaking in the calm, and appreciating the peace of the moment.
Even in the calm of that sunset, though, there was a quiet undercurrent that I couldn’t ignore. The conversations seemed a bit distant, the laughter a little strained. We made our way back to the RV before the night completely fell, but the feeling of disconnection lingered.
The rest of the evening passed quietly, spent around the board games. But something was different. It wasn’t a bad evening—it was just… off. One person mentioned that others would be back by dinnertime, but they didn’t return until late. When they did, they made tacos for everyone with groceries we’d picked up earlier in the day. I had snacked through most of the evening and wasn’t hungry, but it wasn’t just about the food. I think, by then, I had become too tired—not from the day’s activities, but from the emotional distance I could feel between us all.
It wasn’t about the tacos or the late hour—it was the realization that, despite the shared time, the laughter, the passing moments, I was still on the outside. The connection I had longed for felt like it had slipped through my fingers, and no matter how much I tried to fit in, there was always a gap that couldn’t be bridged. The moments of closeness felt forced, and in between them, there was a space I couldn’t fill.
After everyone finished their meals, a bonfire was started. I had been dozing off just before they returned, hoping to turn in early for a full night’s rest. But just as I was settling into the idea of sleep, I was urged to join the others by the fire. When I explained my fear of fires, the response wasn’t understanding—it was frustration. Instead of my feelings being acknowledged, I was met with persistence, as if my reluctance was an inconvenience rather than something worth respecting.
I calmly reiterated that I was fine staying in the RV, that I just needed rest. But the insistence didn’t stop. I could feel the pressure mounting, the expectation to comply rather than to be heard. As others filtered outside, the space around me began to close in. My exhaustion—physical, mental, emotional—had reached its breaking point. I could no longer hold back the tears.
In that moment, I finally spoke up—not just about the fire, but about everything. The exhaustion. The stress. The feeling of being pushed beyond my limits. But my words didn’t seem to land the way I needed them to. Instead, I was met with reminders not to let my fears control me, with reasonings that might have made sense in another setting, but in that moment, only deepened my sense of isolation. It wasn’t just about fear. It wasn’t just about the fire. It was about not feeling safe enough to say no.
As the conversation stretched on, my frustration grew. What I needed was space, but there was none to be found. The walls of the RV weren’t enough to shield me from the weight of it all. Everyone was within earshot, their silence making the situation even heavier. No one spoke up for me. No one stepped in. The whole thing left me feeling small, as if my autonomy was something to be negotiated rather than respected. I wasn’t being treated as an equal, but as someone who needed to be corrected. And that realization stung more than anything.
That night, I lay awake, eyes swollen from crying, heart heavy with a mix of emotions I couldn’t untangle. Fear, hurt, frustration—each one pressing down on me, making it impossible to find comfort. It was the kind of exhaustion that sleep couldn’t fix. The kind that lingers.
Looking back, I realize this was the moment everything shifted. Up until this point, I had tried to push through the discomfort, to convince myself that things would smooth out, that I could find my place. But this night made it clear: I was an outsider in ways I hadn’t fully admitted to myself yet.
What I didn’t know then was that this was only the beginning. In the days that followed, I would be tested in ways I never expected—physically, emotionally, mentally. The tensions that had been simmering beneath the surface would come to a boil. But so would something else: an undeniable truth about who I was, what I needed, and what I could no longer ignore.
For now, I’ll leave you with this: Sometimes, the hardest moments force us to see things we’ve been trying to look past. And once we see them, there’s no going back. Stay tuned—because the rest of this journey was far from what I imagined.
This next part will be available on Monday, January 27th, 2025. I look forward to seeing you all then.
As a signature of my blog, I like to end each post with a suggestion to “Pass on kindness”. There is no such time as the present to Inspire Those Who Inspire You. Acts of kindness, no matter how big or small, can have a direct, positive impact on someone else. Go out there today and change someone’s life for the better!
***These are my personal opinions and may not be those of my employer.***
