El Paso, Heat, and a Little Bit of Healing

Leaving Santa Fe was good for my soul.

I needed to get away. Not forever. Just long enough to break the rhythm, to put distance between me and everything that’s been weighing on me. Sometimes a weekend is enough. Sometimes it’s exactly what you need.

I came down to El Paso, not entirely sure why, just following that quiet pull I’ve learned to trust. The kind that doesn’t explain itself, just nudges you in a direction and waits to see if you’ll listen.

I listened. And I’m glad I did.

I met an incredible group of women riders down here. And for the first time in a long time, I felt… good. Not distracted. Not coping. Not pretending.

Just good.

I felt like I belonged.

After everything, after the betrayals, the isolation, the constant feeling of being on the outside of something I once thought I had, this felt different. This felt like the beginning of something instead of the aftermath of something.

This felt like building.

I’ve made a couple of new friends. Real ones, I think. The kind you don’t rush, the kind you let unfold over time. I’ll be back here. Probably a lot this summer. There’s something about this place that just feels right.

It’s hot as hell. But it’s good.

The people? Kind as fuck.

And sometimes, that’s all it takes.

After the ride, I got back to the hotel absolutely cooked by the sun. The kind of tired that sinks into your bones. I opened up my Surface, and there it was: everything I needed to finally push my book across the finish line.

So I did it. Uploaded. Reviewed. Sat there staring at it like, holy shit, this is actually happening.

And then I saw it: A mistake. Not a small one either. A big, dumb, completely avoidable mistake. A numbered list I forgot to delete. My mistake. Nobody else’s.

So I emailed the interior designer.

Now I wait.

But here’s the thing: that book is done. I can feel it. It’s right there. One small correction away from being real in a way it’s never been before.

Tonight, I’m packing up the room. Laying in bed, feeling that mix of exhaustion and something else… something lighter.

Tomorrow morning I’m meeting one of those new friends for breakfast, and I’m actually excited about it. Not forced. Not trying. Just… looking forward to it.

I’ll get up early, load the bike, get everything strapped down, be ready when she rolls in around eight.

Simple things.

Good things.

Here’s the funny part: When life gets good, the stories get a little quieter. Or maybe they just get harder to dramatize. Because this trip did what it was supposed to do. It pulled me out of my own head. Out of my own soil.

Because that’s what happens if you stay in one place too long, you start putting down roots in shit that isn’t good for you. You start growing into your pain instead of out of it.

Sometimes you need to rip the plant out of the garden and throw it on a motorcycle. Let it see something new. Let it remember what the wind feels like. Let it chase a horizon again.

That kind of freedom? It heals something.