It was March, Spring was beginning to poke its head and I was still reeling from a break up that had left me scrambling to reassemble myself. I didn’t know where to put all the love down; I didn’t know what to do with myself; but most of all, I didn’t know how to be on my own. In fact, I was uncomfortable being alone. But within the mess of my cluttered mind, I had the fleeting idea to pack my bags and get on the road and drive as far as I could.

So I decided to do just that, I planned a spontaneous road trip to Asheville, NC; a cozy mountain town nestled within the Blue Ridge Mountains. A town I had put off visiting for a year because my ex didn’t want to accompany me.

There wasn’t a doubt in me that I not only needed to make this trip, but I had to do it on my own. I didn’t know it at the time but this trip was going to snap me awake and force me to examine the shattered window of my heart.

In the beginning, I had the romanticized belief that by putting the hundreds of miles on my car I would find solace. That somehow I would be able to squeeze the grief out of my body and I’d finally cleanse myself of him. I wanted it to be so simple. But the heartache was too deep to ignore, I was reminded of it at every moment.

As mundane as this moment may sound, the first time I tried chicken and waffles was also the first time I felt the jarring emptiness of the booth seat across from me.

And when I’d wake up in the small loft of the tiny house I rented and bump my head on the ceiling, there was no one to turn to and laugh about it. I could feel the loneliness everywhere and I thought of him more times than I’d care to admit.

But it was through moments like this that I began to learn the beauty of solitude; the thrill of wandering through an unfamiliar town; the comfort in talking to a kind stranger while eating biscuits and jam; the humor in having to perch my phone against a boulder and use self-timer to get a photo of myself; and the peace that came along with allowing myself to be lost.

I had no exact plan each day and I had no idea what exactly I was doing but it was the first time I reveled in the newfound freedom that emerged out of heartbreak.

I did the things I wanted to do without getting made fun of for it; something as simple as walking into an occult shop was like a big middle finger to the air. I lived wholly and completely for myself, a knowledge that laid dormant for far too long, but finally, it was bursting from within me.

Traveling alone made me reacquaint myself with myself. It made me realize that what I needed the most wasn’t a distraction, an escape, or to get on my hands and knees and mend a broken relationship.

What I desperately needed was to become my own best friend and begin the hard work of figuring out how to love myself despite not knowing who I was without him. And how to never repeat the mistake of making someone else the foundation of my being.

So there I was, driving on the Blue Ridge Parkway, windows down, Stevie Nicks blaring, and the mountain air tangling itself in my hair. Alone. That word was beginning to taste less bitter on my tongue.

I didn’t understand it fully in that moment, but I got my first glimpses of the immense freedom that flourishes from the end of things. Taking this road trip required me to dive into the depth of my pain and allow it to tear me open. It didn’t heal me but it showed me that I was capable of enduring.