Sometimes you start writing the story before you know the title. Then, somewhere along the way, the title quietly reveals itself.

That's exactly what happened here.

A while back, my life changed in ways I didn't choose, didn't want (at the time), and certainly wasn't prepared for. Looking back, I realize the biggest turning point wasn't when my life fell apart. It was the moment I believed I could rebuild it.

That didn't mean everything suddenly made sense. It took time to reach acceptance, and it started with one simple, but incredibly difficult, decision: choosing myself.

I wasn't prepared. I didn't have a plan. I had absolutely no idea what the next step would be.

I didn't have a plan.

I had absolutely no idea what the next step would be.

What I did have was a quiet trust in my instincts. So I packed up (yes, my golf clubs, paddle board and laptop were the first) let go of what I couldn't control, and set out with one intention. To heal and begin writing my next chapter.

Recently, a friend shared a quote with me:

"The compass was invented before the clock, proving direction is more important than how long it takes."

I have no idea who originally said it or whether it's historically accurate, but it stopped me in my tracks.

So often we ignore what life or the universe, if that's your thing, is trying to show us because we can't yet understand it. We hesitate because we can't see all the steps ahead. We wait until we have certainty.

But certainty is overrated and rarely arrives.

Sometimes all you need is direction.

As a grief and trauma therapist for more than a decade, I've watched countless people spend enormous amounts of energy running from something instead of running toward something.

It sounds subtle, but it's a profound difference.

When we're hurting, we naturally want relief. We leave relationships, jobs, cities, routines, or versions of ourselves hoping the next thing will magically fix what feels broken. The problem is that if we haven't done the internal work, we often pack our emotional baggage before we pack our suitcase. The scenery changes, but the pain comes along for the ride.

That was my greatest fear when I started this journey.

The truth is...I was doing a little of both.

Much of what I was leaving wasn't my choice. It felt as though the foundation I'd carefully built had crumbled beneath me, and rebuilding from the ground up was my only option.

It wasn't the path I would have chosen.

Many people in my life probably thought I'd completely lost my mind.

Thankfully, instead of trying to steer me somewhere they thought was safer, they simply walked beside me while I found my own way.

I've spent a season of my life living somewhat like a nomad.

I've always loved traveling, but this wasn't vacation travel. This was life. It has been equal parts beautiful, exhausting, lonely, freeing, and deeply eye-opening.

Of everything I've learned, one lesson continues to surprise me the most:

Home isn't a place.

For me, home is the version of myself that different places and different people allow me to be.

When I left California in 2004, people noticed I referred to multiple places as "home." Truthfully, I'd been doing that since 1993, when I fell in love with Seattle and found myself getting homesick for the Pacific Northwest, begging my mom, each summer, to not make me return home.

Now I finally understand why.

Home has never been about geography.

Home is where I feel peaceful.

Where I don't have to perform.

Where I can be completely unmasked.

Where I feel accepted, supported, and seen.

Somewhere along the way, I realized how incredibly fortunate I am to have collected people and places throughout my life...

Those people...

Those places...

They are home.

I've never been particularly good at doing what was expected of me. Whether encouraged, discouraged, or outright demanded, I've usually found my own way eventually.

This chapter has simply asked me to lean into that part of myself even more.

To trust my own compass.

To walk my own path.

Sometimes even pave it.

Recently, I decided to rename this season of my life Lightning Lane.

For a long time, I referred to this chapter as the one where my life blew up.

Now I see it differently.

It became the year my five- and ten-year plans skipped the line and suddenly became this year's plans.

Sometimes the doors that slam shut aren't punishment.

Sometimes they're fast passes.

Sometimes losing the life you thought you wanted is exactly what clears the path toward the one you were actually meant to build.

You just have to survive the storm long enough to see what it's making room for.

Ten Lessons from a Nomad (So Far)

10. Traveling north in the spring and south in the summer is a questionable life choice. People will absolutely question your mental stability.

9. Keep toilet paper in your car. Always. Trust me.

8. Talk to strangers. (Sorry, Mom.) Some of my favorite memories, breathtaking views, and best meals have started with conversations I almost didn't have.

7. Take lots of pictures. But every now and then, put the phone away. Some moments are meant to live only in your memory.

6. Share. Share your stories, your food, your favorite hidden spots, your recommendations. Human connection matters more than we often realize. We all want to feel seen, heard, and connected, and sometimes a simple conversation can change someone's day...including your own.

5. Gas prices are wild. California and Washington...what are we doing? Oklahoma, thank you. Your gas prices felt like finding an unexpected coupon.

4. Call your mom. Or call the person who loves you like one. They worry. They'll sit with your tears, remind you who you are when you've forgotten, and cheer louder than anyone else when you find your footing again. Thank you to all of mine, and for the ones I don’t call Mom, you know who you are.

3. Pack rain boots. Pack layers. Then pack even more layers. Weather, much like life, changes quickly. Especially if you spend spring in Glacier National Park. Apparently this was where people start questioning my mental stability. The upside? I was pleasantly surprised to discover I can still drive in full-on winter conditions.

2. Get lost. Take the random exit. Stop at the roadside marker. Pet the dogs. Wander into the little bookstore. Say yes to the detour. You may never get another chance, and "I wonder what would've happened..." is a heavy souvenir to carry.

1. Accept the invitation.

This journey has reunited me with people I hadn't seen in years, some decades. I've been reminded that people genuinely love being visited. I love seeing the lives they've built, meeting the people they've become, and reconnecting over coffee, dinner, or sometimes an unexpectedly perfect cold beer.

If you think of them:

Send the text.

Make the call.

Take the detour.

Make the visit.

The memories will almost always be worth more than the miles (or gas).

If this season has taught me anything, it's this:

Healing doesn't always look like staying still.

Sometimes healing looks like movement.

Sometimes it looks like trusting the compass before you know the destination.

And sometimes...

the chapter you thought was your biggest setback ends up becoming your very own Lightning Lane.