Bullhead City, AZ

After months of preparing for this journey, I’ve officially hit the road—with my travel buddy, Finn, riding shotgun. (Yes, my sweet, anxious dog is coming with me on this five-month adventure. He wasn’t sure about all the change at first, but like me, he’s learning to go with it.)

Our first stop: Bullhead City, Arizona.

We’re staying in a tiny home inside an RV park—two firsts for me. And I’ve got to say, I’m pleasantly surprised. The tiny home is cozy and has everything we need, and the RV park is its own little world. Golf carts zip by like it’s the norm (because here, it is), kids ride their bikes freely, and neighbors wave hello as they walk their dogs. It’s peaceful. It’s friendly. It’s exactly the kind of gentle start this journey needed. Finn is also loving the dog-friendly community, which makes my heart happy.

But this stop isn’t just about resting. I came to Bullhead to visit my dad before I head out of the country. We haven’t seen each other in a few months, and with everything this past year has brought, it felt important to check in on him.

We lost my mom just over a year ago. They were married for more than 50 years. That kind of loss isn’t something you just move through quickly—especially when so much of your identity has been built around loving one person for that long. We tried relocating my dad to my brother’s home in Chino Valley after she passed, thinking a change of scenery and being closer to family might help. But he struggled. He missed his friends. His community. His rhythm. So, we moved him back to Bullhead.

And now… he has a girlfriend.

She’s actually one of the main reasons I wanted to make this stop. I wanted to meet her—and, okay, I’ll admit it—make sure she wasn’t totally crazy. At first, it felt jarring, seeing my dad with someone who wasn’t my mom. But then I saw him laugh. Like really laugh. And in that moment, I realized something: He deserves this. At 78 years old, after the year he’s had, he deserves companionship, warmth, and joy. Laughter over tears.

Grief has a strange way of making room for both sorrow and hope. And sometimes, that hope arrives in unexpected ways.

My mom’s passing was a major shift for me, too. Our relationship was complicated. She met my basic needs—mostly—but the warmth, nurture, and “I love you”s were painfully absent. I spent much of my life chasing her approval, carrying the belief that I was unlovable or not good enough.

But something shifted in my 40s. I stopped expecting her to be the mother I needed, and started meeting her where she was. That small shift changed everything. She felt it, too. We let our guards down. We had the conversations I thought we’d never have. She told me she loved me, over and over again.

That healing—however late in life—was a gift I’ll carry forever. It didn’t undo the pain, but it gave me peace. And now, as I continue this road of self-discovery and forgiveness, I feel her with me. Not as a weight, but as a witness.

So here I am, starting this new chapter on the road—with my dog, a tiny home, and a heart full of memory. I’m learning, yet again, that healing doesn’t happen all at once. It unfolds in small, tender moments. Like seeing your dad laugh again. Like waving back at a stranger on a golf cart. Like writing down your story so you don’t forget how far you’ve come.

Next stop: Chino Valley.
More to come.