Wander Woman

For seven years, my life was on pause—not because I stopped loving the road, but because my body decided for me. An illness arrived without warning, stripped me of movement, clarity, and the one thing that made me feel alive: wandering. While the world kept spinning, I learned how to survive inside four walls, waiting for answers that came slowly and at a cost I’m still paying. I’m not healed. I’m not fearless. Some days I’m barely steady, but I can’t live in isolation anymore, postponing joy until I’m whole again. So, I’m traveling again—carefully, imperfectly, and in pain—because tomorrow is never promised, and the road has always been the only place where I remember who I am.

I used to believe I would return to the life I had before, that one day my body and mind would reset, and everything would fall back into place. That day never came. Instead, I was left with a quieter, more fragile version of myself who had to relearn how to exist in the world. I don’t hike as far, drive as long, or move as fast as I once did—but standing still costs me more than moving ever could. Exploring forgotten towns, haunted roads, and places history tried to bury isn’t just something I enjoy; it’s how I make sense of what I’ve survived. This life may look different now, but it’s still mine, and I’m choosing to live it instead of waiting for a version of myself that may never return.

I was never built for settling down or shrinking into a life that felt safe but hollow, and now, even the safe space I fought so hard to create no longer feels safe—fractured by manipulation, by a violation of trust I never saw coming. Only a truly damaged person could take something so personal, so sacred, knowing my past and still choose to break it. I spent too many years trying to belong to people who didn’t know how to hold me, who mistook my openness and kindness for something disposable. The road never asks me to be smaller, quieter, or less than I am. It lets me exist exactly as I am—alone, yes, but honest. It can get lonely out here, especially at night, parked beneath a sky full of stars, but loneliness is something I’ve learned how to survive. Disappearing into isolation is not. So I keep going, even when it hurts, even when it’s hard, because wandering isn’t an escape for me—it’s the truest way I know how to live.

This chapter of my life isn’t about proving strength or pretending I’m fearless—it’s about choosing presence over disappearance. I move more slowly now, rest more, listen to my body in ways I never had to before, but I refuse to let illness be the thing that erases me. Every back road, every small town, every quiet, haunted place I stop to write about is a reminder that I’m still here. Still curious. Still becoming. I may never travel the way I once did, but I am traveling again, and that matters. Living hurts sometimes. Staying still hurts more.

I don’t know where this version of the road will lead me, and for the first time, I’m learning to be okay with that. There’s no grand plan, no promise of permanence—just movement, intuition, and the quiet understanding that this life is temporary and fragile. I follow the pull toward forgotten places and star-filled skies because they don’t demand explanations or timelines. They exist, the way I’m learning to exist again. And maybe that’s the lesson illness left me with: you don’t wait to feel ready to live—you go while you can, in whatever way your body allows, and you make meaning out of the miles you’re given.

This blog is my way of documenting that choice—to live instead of waiting, to move instead of disappearing. It’s not a highlight reel or a redemption story, but a record of what it looks like to keep going when your life has been permanently altered. I’ll write about the places that hold secrets, the towns that people pass through without noticing, the nights when pain rides quietly beside me, and the mornings I wake up grateful just to be somewhere new. Wander Woman isn’t about escape or perfection; it’s about honoring the life I still have, even when it hurts, and trusting the road to meet me exactly where I am.

I don’t wander to outrun my past or to prove that I’m unbreakable—I wander because I’m running toward something. The road is the only place I’ve ever felt whole. Even changed, even aching, even uncertain, this is still the life that calls to me. Tomorrow might ask me to slow down again, or stop altogether, but today I’m here, moving, noticing, and living. If there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s this: don’t wait for permission, perfect health, or someone else to make you feel chosen. Take the road while you can. Leave the light on behind you if you must—but keep going.

Keep an eye on my “Shop the Shelf” page for my next book titled:

WANDER or DIE TRYING