I Wasn't Riding to Escape

I went to see my girlfriend again this weekend.

I fucking love saying that. "My girlfriend." Even now, writing those words makes me smile.

I've never felt this way about someone before. Never. And I think the reason has less to do with her than it does with me.

Don't get me wrong, she's incredible. She works hard. She makes time for me despite a schedule that would exhaust most people. She sees me. She understands me. She meets me where I'm at.

But I think the bigger difference is that I'm finally here.

Death changed me.

The accident changed me.

Sobriety changed me.

For most of my life, I was trying to escape. Escape responsibility. Escape pain. Escape disappointment. Escape myself. Alcohol was just one of the vehicles I used to get there.

But somewhere between dying, surviving, recovering, and rebuilding, something shifted. I'm present now. And being present changes everything.

She had to work while I was visiting. Most weekends she does. I understand the sacrifice she makes to carve out time for me, and because I understand it, I appreciate it. Deeply.

So I tell her thank you. A lot.

I try to live in gratitude instead of expectation.

When someone chooses to spend their time with me, that matters. When they choose to share a few precious hours of their life with me, that matters. Out of everything they could be doing, everywhere they could be, they chose me. That isn't something I take lightly.

On the ride home, I noticed something. The ride was different.

Normally when I ride, I'm looking for the edge of chaos. I'm searching for that place where power, precision, speed, and risk intersect. That place where the world finally goes quiet because there's no room left in your mind for anything except the next curve, the next vehicle, the next decision.

That's where I've always found peace.

But this ride wasn't like that. My soul was already quiet.

I wasn't chasing peace. I was carrying it.

I still rode hard. Let's not get ridiculous. I still found the front of every pack. I still found open road and open throttle. But there was no urgency behind it. No desperation. No need to outrun anything.

For the first time I can remember, I wasn't riding to escape. I was simply riding.

When the temperature dropped and rain clouds gathered in the mountains ahead, I did something I almost never do: I pulled over. I put on my jacket. I changed my gloves.

And then I continued into the storm.

The old version of me would have blasted straight through it at triple-digit speeds because somewhere deep inside, I was always trying to prove something.

This time I just smiled.

The cool air wrapped around me. The scent of rain filled my head. And I thought about her. I thought about how settled I felt. I thought about how peaceful everything seemed.

And I realized something: I don't think I've ever felt like this before.

I've had relationships. I've thought I was in love. But I was always drunk. I was always running. I was always trying to leave. I wasn't present for any of it.

I wasn't even present for my own life.

Now I feel everything.

The joy. The fear. The pain. The love. The happiness. The uncertainty. All of it.

And yes, feeling everything means feeling hurt more deeply when it comes. But it also means feeling joy more deeply when it arrives.

Recently she told me something in a text message: "You let yourself be happy now."

And she's right.

I spent so many years avoiding happiness that I honestly don't know what to do with it now that it's here.

I know how to fight. I know how to struggle. I know how to survive.

But happiness? Love? Contentment? Those are new territories.

I don't know how this unfolds. And honestly, I don't care.

I don't care what it looks like. I don't care what label gets attached to it. I don't care about structure, rules, expectations, or outcomes.

I only care that I'm here for it.

Because somewhere along the way, I stopped trying to escape my life. And once I stopped running, I discovered something unexpected: I actually like being here.