“Adventure is just inconvenience rightly considered.” -G.K. Chesterton
My Interpretation: I thought I was taking a trip. I did not realize I was testing who I am without background noise.
Within the first minute of crossing state lines, something flew across my headlights & I genuinely thought I hit a deer.
… Or whatever that animal with the twirly horns on those out west signs are instead of Bucks 👀 …
It was pitch black.
No skyline reveal.
No dramatic mountain silhouette.
Just unfamiliar road & my hands locked on the wheel. When that shape cut across the beam of light, my brain went straight to impact.
Damage.
Worst case scenario.
My pulse spiked so fast it almost embarrassed me.
I almost peed my pants.
It was… a tumbleweed.
Which sounds laughable until you are alone on a dark highway with your kid & a twelve-week-old puppy in the backseat & your body reacts before your mind does.
Five minutes later, another one. I overcorrected. Hard.
Rowan did not even flinch.
That detail stayed with me.
The west does not ease you in. It demands your attention at once.
But what surprised me was not the jolt.
It was the steady.
Out west was steady.
Not euphoric. Not magical. Not escapist.
Steady.
✧ I was not walking around high on possibility.
✧ I was not pretending life did not exist back home.
✧ I was just not tight.
& I did not realize how tight I usually am until I was not.
Out there, I was not carrying anyone else’s emotional weather.
It was just Rowan & me.
⤷ No managing tone.
⤷ No absorbing tension.
⤷ No calibrating myself to keep everything level.
I was not bracing for impact.
Rowan realized it too.
He did not look back at me there – not because he forgot I was behind him, but because he did not need to check.
We were calmer. Naturally. Even.
Not me regulating & him adapting.
Just two nervous systems not fighting anything.
The laughter was simple. It did not spike high & crash. It stayed.
At the parks, he made friends with anyone he saw. Kids ran up to him. They were kind.
They played together – not parallel, not cautious – together. Like I remember from when I was a kid.
& the parks were full of dads. 🤯
Dads pushing swings. Dads crouched in the woodchips tying shoes. Dads watching.
I was the odd one out being the mom there.
Wild.
But it felt balanced. Not heavy.
The drive home carried its own lesson.
South Dakota. Thirty degrees. Rain flirting with ice. The car did not skid – though it suggested it might. My brain started running numbers automatically. Distance between exits. Temperature vs time of day drops.
What if this turns in ten minutes?
There is a version of me that would have kept driving.
Not because it was smart.
Because pushing through feels like proof.
Because stopping can feel like weakness when you have built your identity around endurance & resilience.
I almost defaulted to that.
Instead, I pulled off. Booked the hotel. Added the extra rental day.
> Did not justify it.
> Did not over-explain it.
That decision felt bigger than the weather.
& the second we crossed back into my area of the Midwest, I felt it.
Not emotionally.
Physically.
My shoulders lifted. My jaw tightened. My breathing shortened before my brain even caught up.
The gray sky put me on edge.
Then the phone started.
Calls. Notifications. Missed calls stacked on each other.
Questions about where I was.
Comments about my location.
A reminder that my location could be seen.
We made it home.
Nothing explosive happened.
But the steady disappeared.
Because the brace came back.
> That low-grade readiness.
> That background calculation.
> That awareness that something might need managing at any moment.
My peace exited stage left.
& what unsettled me most was not the annoyance.
It was how quickly my body remembered its role.
The west showed me who I am without bracing.
Coming home showed me how often I brace.
The west was not gentle.
But it was steady.
& now that I know steady exists, I cannot unknow the difference.
Xoxo ♡
(Petty revenge still includes smuggling a tumbleweed home. For science.)
Whisper to the ghosts. Yell into the void. Just don’t be an asshole.