Part 1
When I left Miami, the mission was clear:
Heal. Move forward. Begin again.
And in some ways, I did exactly that.
I had gone to Florida to reset—to escape the heaviness of heartbreak, disappointment, and the kind of soul-exhaustion that can only come from giving your all to the wrong people and the wrong chapters.
I passed my real estate license exam. Mission accomplished. A win.
So why not drive home like a warrior?
I told myself:
“I want to do this trip alone. I need to.”
My friend had driven with me to Florida… but I wanted this moment for myself.
A bold declaration of independence.
Spoiler: Never again. LOL. But we’ll get to that.
Welcome to Atlanta… Or Was It a Scene from a Nightmare?
What was supposed to be a peaceful first leg turned into a slow crawl through chaos.
Traffic piled on. What should’ve taken 8 hours dragged into 12.
By the time I got to Atlanta, I was emotionally and physically drained.
But nothing—nothing—could’ve prepared me for what I saw.
The streets were packed with what felt like a third-world street party gone wrong.
Drunk people. Loud music. Half-naked bodies. Marijuana smoke so thick it gave me a migraine.
It didn’t feel like a city. It felt like a scene from a disaster film.
Then I saw my hotel: The Marriot Marquis.
It looked glamorous online…
But stepping in felt like descending into hell.
Filthy carpets. People stumbling around. A line for valet so long, I waited THREE HOURS just to park.
I was invited to park outside—where it was even worse.
Homeless people. Prostitutes. More drugs. More chaos.
And here I was… exhausted, alone, angry…
And scared.
I finally got my car parked around 2 or 3 AM.
Didn’t shower. Didn’t change.
I slept on top of my clothes, like a soldier in enemy territory.
I felt like I had betrayed myself by staying, but I also knew my family begged me to stop and rest.
So I did… as best I could.
From One Storm to Another
The next morning, I left for Columbia, trying to shake off the nightmare.
The highway was still heavy with traffic, but I just wanted out.
Then—an Amber Alert.
One minute later, I drove into a wall of water.
Flash flooding. Thunder. Lightning. Darkness.
I called my son in a panic.
He said, “Mom, it’s just water.”
But to me, it was every fear I’ve buried rising up at once.
I hung up, pulled over. Cars were stopped, emergency lights blinking.
I had a choice.
Wait in fear—or keep going.
I chose to keep going.
Not because I wasn’t scared… but because I’ve been through worse.
Because life doesn’t stop when storms hit.
Every time a semi-truck passed, it splashed so high, I thought I’d disappear.
I prayed. I cried.
And I drove on.
A Highway or a Horror Film?
Night fell.
Rain returned.
And suddenly, I wasn’t on a highway anymore.
I was in a horror movie—alone, surrounded by blackness and uncertainty.
I realized I had pushed myself too hard.
I had nothing to prove.
I didn’t need to keep testing my strength like this.
I whispered to myself:
“It’s okay to stop being so hard on yourself.
You’re already strong.
You don’t need to suffer to learn a lesson.”
And maybe that was the biggest lesson of all.
Part 2
Finding Peace in the Rearview Mirror
After surviving Atlanta and driving through storms that felt like a metaphor for my entire life, the road finally began to open up. I left Columbia with no expectations—just a deep desire to get home. And for the first time in days, I felt a sense of ease.
No chaos.
No crowds.
Just me, the open road, and a new rhythm.
Somewhere in Kansas, I made a spontaneous stop.
Ribs.
The kind of good, sticky, soulful ribs you only find in a small-town joint with neon signs and a pit master who knows what he’s doing.
I sat there, quiet. Chewing slowly. Breathing deeply.
It was the first time I truly enjoyed something since Miami.
And that mattered.
Because healing isn’t just crying through the pain.
Sometimes, healing is ribs in Kansas after chaos in Atlanta.
Sometimes, it’s a peaceful drive with the windows cracked open, music low, no one calling, no one needing you.
Just you… remembering what it feels like to be okay.
Crossing Into Colorado
The final stretch into Colorado felt different.
I wasn’t just arriving—I was returning.
To my home.
To my strength.
To the woman I had been looking for through miles of traffic, trauma, and tough decisions.
No, the trip wasn’t perfect.
But it was mine.
And with every state line I crossed, I shed another layer:
The guilt.
The pressure.
The idea that I had to suffer to grow.
I realized I could heal… and still be soft.
Be strong… and still be scared.
Be alone… and still be whole.
So Here’s What I Learned
Strength isn’t about suffering in silence.
It’s not about proving you can endure what breaks you.
True strength is knowing when to stop.
When to rest.
When to say, “This storm isn’t mine to drive through.”
Don’t romanticize resilience that costs you your peace.
Don’t stay in spaces that steal your joy, just to prove you can survive.
And don’t push through when your soul is begging you to pause.
Because here’s the truth —
Healing doesn’t happen by force.
It happens when you choose yourself.
And sometimes that means pulling over.
Sitting down.
And savoring the ribs in Kansas.
Because you’re not just surviving anymore.
You’re rising.
And that’s the bravest thing you’ll ever do.
“This is part of my healing journey. If my story touches you, share yours with me — you’re not alone. #EWomenStrong”
