When the Road Disappeared

I thought we were going scouting for a fishing spot.

We packed our fishing rods, just in case we found a place worth casting a line.

Mostly, though, it was an excuse for a drive.

Those have become some of my favourite days.

We drove for what felt like forever down lease roads that wound through the Alberta bush. The farther we went, the quieter everything became.

I noticed something that would have been impossible a few years ago.

I was enjoying the drive.

Not trying to make it productive.

Not thinking about what I should be doing instead.

Just looking out the window.

The trees.

The changing light.

The sky.

I even noticed the little voice in the back of my mind asking its usual questions.

What if…?

But this time, it was quiet enough that I could let it chatter without listening too closely.

I remember thinking,

I’ve come a long way.

Then the road ended.

Ahead of us was a field.

Beyond that was the creek we had come to find.

My husband drove across without much hesitation.

My body, however, had already decided something terrible was about to happen.

What if the ground is soft?

What if we get stuck?

What if no one comes?

We’re an hour off the highway.

An hour and a half from home.

We’ll be out here all night.

What if…

What if…

What if…

Nothing had happened.

There was no danger.

There wasn’t even evidence that there would be danger.

But my nervous system didn’t seem interested in evidence.

It had already made its decision.

When we stopped, my husband and daughter climbed out to look around.

I couldn’t.

Not because I thought the place itself was dangerous.

Because my body had become dangerous to me.

My chest tightened.

My breathing became shallow.

Every instinct told me to stay in the truck.

We drove a little farther.

Closer to the creek.

Closer to the marshy ground.

Closer to all the places my imagination insisted we shouldn’t be.

The panic got louder.

Again, they got out.

Again, I stayed where I was.

Eventually, after they’d been exploring for what felt like half an hour, I managed to convince myself to open the door.

I walked down to the creek.

I took a few photographs.

I looked around.

But I wasn’t really there.

Not the way I had been on the drive in.

My body was still trying to get me somewhere safe.

It wasn’t until we were back on the solid lease roads that I finally felt my shoulders drop.

I could breathe again.

On the drive home, I thought about what had happened.

A few years ago, I probably would have come home disappointed in myself.

I would have asked why I couldn’t just relax.

Why I couldn’t be normal.

Why something so ordinary felt so overwhelming.

This time, I asked a different question.

What was my nervous system trying so hard to protect me from?

I don’t know the answer yet.

Maybe there isn’t just one.

What I do know is this.

Healing hasn’t made my fear disappear.

It has made me curious about it.

That’s a very different thing.

A year ago, I might have called today a failure.

Now I see it as information.

My nervous system wasn’t reacting to the creek.

Or the field.

Or even the possibility of getting stuck.

It was reacting to uncertainty.

The unknown.

For most of my life, uncertainty and danger became tangled together.

Maybe that’s why I like plans.

Solid roads.

Knowing how to get home.

Maybe that’s why my body relaxed the moment the tires touched firm ground again.

The interesting thing is that none of this erased the joy of the day.

I still loved the drive.

I still noticed the trees.

The sky.

The quiet.

The possibility of discovering somewhere beautiful.

Today reminded me that healing isn’t a straight road.

Sometimes you’re enjoying the scenery.

Sometimes the road disappears.

Sometimes your nervous system reminds you there are still places it doesn’t trust.

And sometimes the bravest thing you do isn’t standing fearlessly beside a creek.

Sometimes it’s opening the truck door anyway.

Because today wasn’t about finding a fishing spot.

It was about finding another place inside myself that still needs a little more kindness.