New Era Begins

Drastic changes were staring me in the face like a golden retriever with a leash and an agenda—panting, ready, and just a little bit manic. The point of no return. At that moment, my life looked less like an inspiring Pinterest quote and more like a snarl of Christmas lights—knotted, blinking, and making me say words I promised I’d stop using around children.

It was the season for packing, both literal and emotional. I was elbow-deep in boxes, carefully tucking away Christmas bulbs into their original packaging, because apparently, my coping mechanism for chaos is obsessive organization. I was the queen of keeping things neat. (It’s easier than keeping people neat. Or sons. Or men.) My world had always been about details and rationing resources, like Martha Stewart trapped in a bunker.

Flashbacks included: years of LAN parties with my son and his squad, a tornado of teenage boys who could clear out the fridge and pantry in two hours flat. They survived on pizza rolls and Sobe, and for all their digital mayhem, they were oddly sentimental. Their idea of a birthday present? Passing around the same $20 bill in increasingly creative disguises: frozen in ice, stashed in a hollowed-out log, duct-taped to a ceiling fan. Amazon wish lists were for amateurs.

And then there were the men: some who took me dancing, more who took my trust, and a few who tried to take my dignity (nice try, gentlemen). Yes, betrayals left me a single mom, but they also toughened my connections with the actual good guys—living proof that not all men are trash, just the ones who inspire restaurant-stall sobbing. Soulmates, I’ve learned, are mostly there to teach you a hard lesson.

Still, there were moments of unexpected kindness: a stranger slipping a free piece of pie into my takeout bag (“You remind me of my mom, and I miss her”), a Good Samaritan rescuing me when my car died on the highway, a woman in a bathroom stall telling me that any man who makes you cry isn’t worth the mascara. Bathroom philosophers, I salute you.

Not all the lessons were heartwarming. Some came with a side of mildew, or the sting of politics that dissolved family ties faster than bleach on black jeans. Turns out, losing people over cheese preference (I mean, politics) is just another flavor of modern disappointment.

Through it all, I curated my world. I Marie Kondo’d my friends, passions, and even my opinions. If it didn’t spark joy or at least a solid eye-roll, it went out with the old curtains.

Work? I had several “careers” (read: plots for Netflix dark comedies). Some memories are good, but most were just passing time, lessons disguised as business cards and lost weekends. The only thing worse than wasted time is pretending you didn’t waste it.

After years of overthinking, strategizing, and revising life plans on the backs of grocery receipts, I finally did the thing: in 2012, I made the leap. My two-year solo road trip was either a bold reinvention or a midlife crisis with better scenery.

I bought a shiny new 2015 Camplight 14DBS and paired it with my beloved 2004 Explorer Sport—until the realization (halfway home from the dealer) that the wheelbase of only 101″ was not going to do a safe job of hauling me and the trailer around the country. So, enter: the Ford Expedition. I cried as I sat in the driver seat of my new giant Expedition I had just purchased and watched them drive my Sport to the back of the dealership. Funny because I don't cry very often but I shed tears over the loss of that hunk of metal. But some things had to end for the new to begin. Now I own a tow vehicle that could haul twenty elephants up a mountain.

From 2014 to 2016, I lived out of a rolling shoebox, collecting stories, scars, and at least one cat decal. If you ever saw a trailer with a cat clinging to the back and “Live Laugh Roll” on the sides, that was me. Say hello.

And if you’re reading this now, maybe you’re at your own tangle of lights, your own point of no return. Welcome. The road’s a mess, but the stories are worth it.