The Road Back to Myself

It’s been eight years.

Eight years since I've made the drive to South Carolina to see the women who know my heart better than most. Eight years of “maybe next time” and “I’m just too busy right now” - when really, it was fear doing the talking.

The truth is, I have anxiety. Not the kind that just makes you nervously tap your foot or double-check the stove - though I do those things too. Mine shows up when the road stretches long in front of me. For years now, driving has sat at the top of my anxiety list. Long-distance driving, especially. Though if you ask me, I’ll still refer to a 30-minute drive as a “long way.”

It’s in the what ifs that swirl louder than the music on the radio.

But here I am - bags almost packed, playlist half-built, and courage bubbling up quietly under the surface. Because this trip? It’s not just about the miles. It’s about reclaiming something I’ve let sit on the shelf for too long: freedom. Friendship. The open road.

And yes - I’m scared.

But I’m also going.

Because sometimes bravery doesn’t look like bold declarations. Sometimes it looks like a woman climbing into a car with a lump in her throat and a steering wheel in her hands.

The last few times I’ve seen these ladies, they’ve come to me. And oh, how I’ve appreciated them for that. To see them - to really spend time with them - I’ve missed it.

We have this way of just laughing, sometimes crying, and easing one another’s burdens without even trying. After a weekend with them, I feel lighter. Like life exhaled.

So yes, I’m braving the open road.

I’m doing it not just for the girl time (though that’s sacred).

I’m doing it to remind myself: I got this.

Small steps.

Quiet bravery.

One mile at a time.