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I thought life was a trip—one I had carefully planned for.

I packed photographs instead of maps—
little snapshots tucked carefully into the suitcase of my memory:
laughter, smiles, and hugs,
and those ordinary mornings that felt like arriving somewhere safe.

The clothing was simple too—
just a wide-open heart,
filled with anticipation of where the journey together would lead,
packed with memories of familiar roads and pretty destinations.

Never imagining the journey would change course—
the road bending out of nowhere,
carrying me to a place that whispered,
This is where you are now.

And then, without warning, the road ended.
No gentle slowing.
Just a hard stop that left me gripping the wheel,
the world outside still moving
while I sat there, stunned, unable to follow.

Nighttime came quickly.
Darkness wrapped me in its dream
as I dropped out of the story I had lived in.

When the haze thinned and things slowly took shape,
there were no grand views or clear blue skies waiting for me.

Instead, I was staring at a parking lot.

It wasn’t empty.
It wasn’t quiet.
It was packed.

Tears pulled in first—sudden and blinding.
Anger screeched in beside them, doors flung open.
Sadness followed, slow and heavy, taking up more space than it should.
Fear circled endlessly, searching for a spot that didn’t exist.
Regret double-parked and refused to move.

Every feeling arrived at once,
stacking in rows so tight it was hard to see past them.

The disappointment was unavoidable.

I wasn’t just lost—
I was living in loss,
misplaced in a story I no longer recognized.

I ache for the trip that never happened.
And here’s the part no one told me:

I am allowed to hate the view.

I am allowed to sit in the car, hands on the wheel,
staring at a place I never wanted to be.

But slowly—not because I am strong,
but because I am tired of holding my breath—
something begins to shift.

I start to notice a change.

The way a sliver of light still reaches me late in the day.
The way hope bends softly toward me,
even when it’s boxed in by tears.
The narrow space between my emotions
where I can finally breathe without performing.

The view is not what I hoped for.
But it holds a quiet promise.

This place asks me to see in a different way.
It doesn’t open the sky all at once.
It nudges my gaze inches at a time—
from what blocks me
to what still remains.

Perspective here isn’t about pretending the parking lot is a beach.
It’s about learning how to live where I landed.

For now, I am no longer staring at obstacles,
but searching for windows between them.

Not chasing the prized destination.
Just choosing to live in the moment.

Even here, where I never meant to be,
there is still room to stretch my legs,
roll down the window,
and feel the air move.

I didn’t arrive where I planned.

But I am still here.
Still breathing.
Still capable of seeing more than those feelings.

And maybe—just maybe—
the view ahead is not gone.

It’s simply hidden for now.

~