Last year I drove by myself to Des Moines from the Kansas City area. It was a Saturday in May, nice weather. An impulsive decision. I decided to drive up for tacos and drive back, no joke.
I made that afternoon up-and-back trip for these reasons:
> I had free time and gas money, plus the gumption
> no one could question me, or tell me no
> I wanted to take Iowa back
Because the last time I saw Iowa, years ago, the experience was contentious, at best. Travel with my abuser always was. You’ve been there. You’ve felt the tension, the discord, when it’s supposed to be “vacation.”
And so I wanted to go back, just me. Me and my peace as a new, healed-and-healing person.
People might laugh at you, and others won’t understand your need for revisiting and reframing places that once held uncomfortable feelings. But guess what? They don’t need to. It’s another thing you can and should do for yourself. No one else matters.
My journey, of course, wasn’t about the tacos. It was about choosing a thing I wanted to do and then making it happen, then holding a memory of my own making — without someone else’s infringement on my experience.