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The self-sabotage started early — at least two weeks early. I was making all the usual excuses: it was Easter weekend, chores needed doing, and I had upcoming events to think about. Then came the kicker: my favorite 7-year-old’s family birthday pizza-and-cake Friday night. That one hit me right in the heart.

In my head, I was already spiraling into full dramatic nonsense: What if the kid is disappointed for half a second that his buddy isn’t there? And then, somehow, that turned into me imagining a future therapy session where he’s talking about my absence like it personally contributed to his emotional development. Absolutely unhinged. Exhausting, honestly.

That’s the thing about my brain — it wants to go straight to worst-case scenario, and my body feels all of it like it’s already happened. I can wear myself out trying to juggle all the thoughts and emotions to the point of collapse. I wonder how I go most days without just collapsing from brain exhaustion, tension held, and my fear of wasting one second of my time on Earth.

Through therapy, energy work, countless books and songs, dancing, numerous days with a face full of salt from crying, and one decision that saved my life, I just recently started to understand the difference between perceived truth and actual truth.

My mind can tell me a story. My body can believe it. But that does not make it real.

I know I could work until I die if I let myself believe lies about others happiness. But I am not the source of happiness for anyone except me. Trying to be that source for everyone else is a waste of the short time we get here. I create my own happiness, and that belongs to me, just as each person I love gets to create their own.

So I packed my vehicle and headed out on my first solo overnight camping trip.

Red River Gorge

I went back to Red River Gorge, though my campsite had been booked before I decided to stop the ST challenge. This time I stayed at Lago Linda campground outside of Beattyville, Kentucky. It was tucked back off the road, and the property was beautiful, with waterfalls, a lake, and miles of private trails.

There was even a restaurant onsite, but I stuck to my junk food, except for one meal out. The facilities were nice, but the sites were a little too close together for my taste. Next time, I would choose the open area instead of a reserved site.

I set up my hammock, chair, cooler, books, and journal, and settled in to do what I came to do: exist in the woods and let some of my concrete-life worry leak out slowly.

Then the group next to me rolled in, and they were absolutely my kind of people — in my wildin’ out state. But in the forest? Simmer down, souls.

They were a bit rowdy for me, so I took a long walk and explored the property. I found a waterfall pretty quickly, and that was the first moment I felt myself start to soften. The lake was clear and gorgeous, and I sat in a gazebo on the dam at sunset until I realized the sun was not, in fact, setting in that direction.

Sleep was not great. Some of that was on me — I got lazy and didn’t use an underquilt or sleep pad, so I got chilly around 2 a.m. The rest was courtesy of my neighbor, who sounded like he was personally sawing down every tree I have ever loved. Then 5 a.m. arrived with his infant, who was apparently living her best morning of all time. I was not mad at the baby. Honestly, I was close to getting up and joining her. Just caffeine me up and let’s ride, little one.

Instead, I got up, took a short walk, visited the restroom, and started packing.

Natural Bridge

Since I couldn’t sleep, I figured I should use the chilly air and empty trails to visit Natural Bridge. I can’t remember the last time I hiked the state park section of the area because dogs aren’t allowed, and my most consistent hiking partner is Maggie, my fur best friend.

I had missed this place. It felt almost like seeing it for the first time again.

I only hiked about 2.5 miles, but I spent nearly three hours intentionally observing, absorbing, releasing, hearing, and processing. I laughed loudly. I cried several times. I did little happy dances because I was so full of joy. I sat for a long while with my shoes off and my bare feet on the bridge.

The cold rock under my feet reminded me that it was still holding the chill of the dark night before. I know it warmed as the day went on, and I hope someone else got to feel that warmth later.

Near the end of the hike, I finally spotted a Sheltowee Trace blaze on the suspension bridge. My heart jumped. My throat tightened for a split second. It was one of those tiny moments that feel strangely confirming, like the trail was quietly telling me I was exactly where I needed to be.

Back at the car, I kicked off my shoes and socks, slipped on my Chaco slides, and opened a Go Brewing Pilsner NA and a box of Samoa Girl Scout cookies. A balanced recovery meal, obviously.

After that, I headed to Hops Fork, a local farm-to-table spot with an amazing vibe and open-air seating. I ate lunch, chilled by the creek for a bit, then drove the loop and did the short hike at Chimney Top. It was later in the afternoon, the wind was picking up ahead of a storm, and I had the usually packed overlook to myself for more than 15 minutes. I felt so grateful for that quiet view.

Once I knew it was too windy to comfortably keep hiking, I headed home and made one last stop for a Cook Out milkshake in Winchester.

What I learned

There’s one part I’ve been avoiding talking about: what I want this blog to be now that I’ve stopped the challenge.

I spent weeks sitting with that question — meditating on it, walking with it, holding it close, and still not finding the answer. Then, in a recent conversation with a friend, I finally said out loud what I had been most afraid of. That meant I had to feel it fully.

The fear is rejection.

When I dug deeper, I realized my purpose — the thing I’ve been wrecking my brain trying to find — has been with me the whole time. I just had to believe it for myself. My truth is mine. Telling my stories is part of my path, and I can do it without fearing rejection or pity.

I’m an oversharer by nature. That has always been true. I’ve also been ashamed of it for a long time. I’ve spent years worrying I’m annoying or too much. But I’m done being ashamed of sharing.

I will keep telling my joys, struggles, wins, and losses, because part of my purpose here is to be a messenger. Maybe someone finds my words and sees their own life in them. Maybe something here helps someone feel less alone. I cannot control who reads my stories or what they think about them. And honestly, that is terrifying. But what would be the point if I didn’t want anyone to feel something?

So I’m choosing to trust that my blog will find the person(s) who needs it.

Moving forward

This solo trip was the loneliest thing I have ever experienced. I struggle with silence, especially when I’m alone. It can feel heavy and smothering, like I want to throw my hands up and scream or wither away.

But I also know that the more I practice doing things alone for the sake of peace, joy, grounding, and mental health, the easier it will become. The challenge is not giving up before I get there.

My job is to slow myself down, find my inner calm, and live the moment before I rush to share it. I can still be a messenger — I just need to ease up on the delivery speed. I am not a perfect person, and I don’t need a perfect life. I need an authentic one.

So I’ll keep going on adventures. I’ll share when it feels right. And I’ll keep telling the truth about what it means to be a late-diagnosed, neurodivergent, overthinking empath who just wants people to feel loved and to give love in return.

Live your great story, not a perfect one.