The First Place I Traveled Alone
I was 27 and drowning.
My sister’s cancer diagnosis was still pretty fresh. My job was actually killing me. I was unknowingly hurtling through an ever-worsening mental health crisis. I felt like I needed more air all the time. More space. More room to really make eye contact with my life, diagnose its ailments, and heal.
Some part of me knew that couldn’t and wouldn’t happen in familiar surroundings, so I booked my first solo trip to Santa Fe. There’s a special kind of ancient magic in looming red sandstone cliffs, woodsmoke curling out of an adobe chimney, and expansive, sunny skies slowly baking clusters of sagebrush bushes. I deeply hoped that unique brand of Southwest magic would allow me to begin to heal.
Rio Gorge Bridge, Northern New Mexico- Photo Credit- Rachel Irene
I had never been alone like this before. No one to sit with at dinner. No one to help me navigate to the next scenic viewpoint. No one to share the drive time with. No one was there to share the experience- it was all mine.
I reveled in the sheer independence, the space to think, and the understanding that I was alone, but not lonely. I spent each day wandering museums, art galleries, and shops. I treated myself to incredible food and bought a tiny turquoise ring to commemorate the trip. At night, I strolled the Plaza and allowed myself time to notice the stars, the warm light behind wood pane windows, and the delicious aroma of burning piñon.
One afternoon, I stopped at a gift shop and bought a white greeting card with a Southwestern scene printed on the front in black ink. I walked across the street to a tiny coffee shop, ordered something iced, and found a table. I wrote myself a message inside that little white card. I told myself all the good things I was doing, all the ways in which I was growing, changing, and becoming. I begged myself to keep going, keep healing, keep allowing life to get good again. I mailed that little card to myself that afternoon. I still have it tucked away in a drawer and find it from time to time. I smile every time I reread it.
On my last day, I met an older local man. He had completely white hair and tanned skin, lined with wrinkles. As we talked about the understated beauty of the Southwest, he said, “The Southwest just has a way of sticking to your soul.”
And it’s true. The prickly cacti, the bundles of bright red chilies hanging off the eaves, the long, straight two-lane highways narrowing off in the distance, the stark landscape- the spirit of the Southwest does indeed stick to your soul.
This is the point of travel. It’s about experiencing a place so deeply that it changes you. Each city, each scenic view, each moment imprints itself on the underbelly of our souls. Santa Fe caught me, for a brief period of time, while I was drowning and allowed me to breathe again. It was more than my first solo trip, it was proof I could independently carry myself through unfamiliar terrain and come home more healed. This solo trip became the first of many in the US and beyond. Each one teaches me, heals me, and reminds me of how beautiful this life and this world can really be.
