The day after my partner of almost 3 years and I separated, I boarded a plane to northern Wyoming. My father and I had decided earlier that summer that we were going to take a road trip across the west, visiting as many National Parks as possible. So, we set off to Yellowstone and made our way down toward Yosemite. I could go on and on describing the granite monoliths of California or the canyons and arches of Arizona, but I will leave that for another time. Instead, I would like to focus on some unspoken struggles and the ways our road trip helped me reflect upon them.

Break ups are tough. And for a while, I didn't feel as though I was ready to talk about mine. I didn't even tell my dad while we were on the road together. There were times I could feel my mouth start to form the words, but my lungs couldn't quite push the air out. I didn't tell my best friends either. I kept it to myself. I felt as if that was my struggle to endure alone. Now, I'm not sure if that was the right move, but I'm glad to know carrying that emotional burden didn't break me. I came out strong on the other end. Well, stronger. I'm not quite sure if I'm strong yet, but I am ready to talk about all of this.

Admittedly, it was strange keeping it all to myself. Through the hundreds of miles and tens of podcasts, I found my thoughts always straying back to the night before I had left to this unknown land. I kept asking myself if I had done everything right; questioning every decision as if the way I had closed a door or said goodnight was the catalyst for my relationship's completion. And though the decision had been mutual, it hurt watching a part of my life disappear overnight. It still hurts. I'm still trying to discover who I am on my own. But I think everyone is. I don't believe that's an answer I'm ever going to find.

I look back on that trip quite fondly. I like to remember everything about it: the strangers we met, the places we saw, and the people we were. But I also remember the heart ache. Sometimes I imagine a trail of blood followed my car as we drove across the country and if I'd go back now, I'd still be able to find that trail. I'd be able to follow it, maybe feel the same things I did then, but probably not. The roads we drove on are probably just the same as they were before we ever saw them. Sometimes I think about how many broken hearted people have driven on those roads and how unchanged those roads stay as if they're always ready to help; ready to take some of the pain and show those hurting people something beautiful without showing how much hurt has been there before.

That trip felt odd to me. I was traveling through places I had never seen in a state of being I hadn't known for 3 years. But I think the newness really helped me. I think if I were stuck at home I would have had a harder time with it all. The monotony of routine would have only highlighted the glaring loneness. But instead, everything was new: the scenery, the people, the car, the air, and, in part, my life. The newness embodied in the Earth let me know that it was ok; that newness was as comforting as a pattern. Most of my life was the same, but not all of it. I felt it then and I feel it now. Its still a little raw, but its been healing nicely.

I remember missing her a lot on that trip. I remember thinking that everything would look just a little more beautiful with her by my side, but I was probably drunk on melancholia. Now, I don't think any of that could be any more beautiful than it was. I miss the asphalt of the west, I miss waking up before the sun did with my dad, I miss getting the car stuck in the middle of nowhere and having to get out in pitch black night while my dad reverses out of the sand, I miss waiting an hour and a half for water to shoot of the ground, I miss flying over the Grand Canyon and thinking about how much bigger it seemed in person, I miss stopping at a McDonald's that doubled as a Native American Museum, I miss taking my dad on a hiking trail that was just a little too hard for him, I miss trying to get just the right angle for a photo using my film camera, I miss being in the car for hours. I probably miss that the most. Just being in the car next to my dad listening to some stupid podcast about how bats work. I'm thankful to be missing those things now. I'm happy that just being on the road missing my old life provided me with even more things to miss. I hope I'll miss them for a while, at least until I find another thing to miss.