There were strangely a lot of emotions on day one.

And I don’t think it was actual itinerary or potential challenge of this trip that struck a cord. It was what this trip represented for me.

I’ve traveled plenty in my life—grew up in a nomadic family, changed schools and towns constantly—but this trip was different. It wasn’t just movement for the sake of it. It was the first tangible step in redefining who I was after walking away from a job I thought I’d be doing for many more years.

That being said, transitions like that rarely come with fanfare. They’re quiet. Often lonely. When you shift paths, you can’t always bring everyone with you—not because those relationships don’t matter, but because they’re still on the road you left behind. Stepping into something new can feel isolating.

Growing up, meeting new people wasn’t comfortable—but it was necessary. I learned to read a room, bridge gaps, make people feel at ease. That became a strength. But in the past few years, I hadn’t leaned on that part of myself much. Most of my focus had been on healing my body, not expanding my circle.

This trip was a chance to change that. To be alone enough to stretch that muscle again. A big goal I laid out early on was simple: connect with people wherever I go.

Some of those connections were familiar—like visiting cousins in Squamish. But many were open-ended: friends of friends, people I hadn’t seen in years, or folks I didn’t know at all.

Originally, I planned to stop in Tahoe to reconnect with a few of them. But with my departure delayed, that timeline fell apart. And when you’re on the road while others are rooted in their routines, spontaneous meetups get harder. I had to remind myself: it’s not just uncomfortable for me. Meeting up with someone from a past life—or a total stranger—isn’t always easy for them either. Especially when they’ve built a rhythm that doesn’t include you.

After a solo sunset skin in Mammoth to get my ski legs back, I decided to linger in the area and figure things out from there.

That night I grabbed dinner at Dos Alas, one of my favorite restaurants in town. I squeezed into the bar and struck up a conversation with two of the waiters. They immediately brought good energy—something I didn’t realize I needed to kick off what would become a long trip.

The first, Rudy, invited me to go skydiving that weekend and pointed me toward one of his favorite “locals-only” hot springs. Lyla overheard me talking about switching from snowboarding back to skiing and offered me a free lesson. Small gestures—but powerful reminders: even when you’re uncertain, even when plans fall through, people can surprise you.

These weren’t lifelong friendships. They didn’t need to be. They were the spark I needed to remember that connection doesn’t always show up when or how you expect—but if you stay open to it, it shows up all the same.

That night, I followed Rudy’s directions on an unexpected two-hour solo off-road adventure, pushing through a couple feet of snow in search of his “super secret” spring. I didn’t end up getting in—it was late, cold, and I was drained from the day and the detour—but waking up there the next morning, surrounded by stillness and steam rising off the water, helped neutralize the 24-hour rollercoaster I’d just been on.

It gave me a quiet moment to breathe before stepping into another thought-provoking day—still trying to figure out what direction this very loosely planned trip would take next.