The Road Beckons

Many of you know that I struggled emotionally after this last accident.

Physically, it fucked me up from head to toe. But mentally? Spiritually? That’s where the real damage happened. I struggled with life’s meaning. Struggled with my belief in God. Struggled with my very fucking existence while trying to recover from everything that happened.

And in the middle of that storm, while I was wandering around emotionally lost in the desert, I was betrayed by people I trusted deeply.

Twice.

Two separate betrayals from two separate people during a time when I desperately needed stability, loyalty, and friendship.

Instead, I got front-row seats to human selfishness.

That period changed me permanently.

But somewhere out there in the darkness, there was also a flicker of light.

Someone I had met years ago through work. Someone I had always admired, even though life kept us moving along separate paths. Different companies. Different schedules. Different time zones. The kind of person you occasionally cross paths with just enough to remain quietly present in each other’s minds.

Then, in January, right in the middle of the second betrayal, she reached out to check on me.

Out of nowhere.

She had heard about the accident and simply wanted to know if I was okay.

And honestly? That first message mattered more than she probably realized.

But what mattered even more was that she reached out again.

I’m probably fucking up the timeline a little because my perception of time over the last six months has been absolute garbage. Trauma does weird things to memory. But the important part is this: She checked in. Then she checked in again.

Consistency.

Presence.

That matters.

Especially when your brain feels like a shaken snow globe and your emotional foundation is sliding sideways beneath your feet.

We started texting. Then talking. Then really talking. And honestly, a deep friendship developed almost immediately.

My soul was starving for connection, and for once, the universe answered gently.

Now we talk almost daily through texts and phone calls, and those conversations have become some of the brightest moments in my day.

For those of you who read my blog regularly, you probably already know I’ve been itching for a ride.

Not a commute. Not a quick ride around Santa Fe. Not my usual loops through town chasing sunsets and thunderstorms.

I mean a real ride. A long ride. The kind where you load the bike, point yourself toward the horizon, and just fucking go.

There’s something magical about crossing unknown landscapes on two wheels. Watching the world slowly transform around you. Desert becoming mountains. Mountains becoming forests. Tiny towns appearing and disappearing like forgotten thoughts.

That itch has been growing inside me for months now.

Sometimes I fantasize about quitting work entirely. Selling most of my shit. Putting the rest in storage and simply roaming the country until the end of my days. Following weather patterns. Following curiosity. Following the road.

Now, let’s be honest here: I’m a little too pampered to fully romanticize suffering. I do not want to sleep on the ground beside my motorcycle every night like some rugged Instagram overlander pretending dehydration is a personality trait.

I want hotel rooms. Showers. Coffee. Air conditioning.

I’ll throw a blanket and maybe a tiny emergency tent on the bike just in case things go sideways, but my preferred camping strategy is Marriott.

Still, the fantasy persists.

And one day? I really might do it.

Then this friend of mine sent me photos and travel notes from where she lives. And holy shit. It looks enchanting. The kind of place that makes your chest ache a little because your soul immediately recognizes it as somewhere worth seeing before you die.

I didn’t need another reason to go visit her. Honestly, I’d already been mentally trying to figure out how to wedge this ride into my work schedule. Her email just felt like the universe placing a giant exclamation point at the end of the sentence.

It’s time.

Time to head west.
Then north.
Then wherever the road decides to pull me next.

Because I need the ride.

I need the open road beneath me. I need the wind and sunlight and strange landscapes rolling endlessly past my peripheral vision.

And honestly? I want to sit across from this beautiful friend in some tiny coastal café and have these conversations in person instead of through a glowing screen.

The road is calling. And there’s a beautiful soul waiting on the other side of it.