episode 1
I parked the truck just past the fire road gate and killed the engine. I sat there for a moment with my hands still on the wheel, listening to the ticking of the engine as it cooled. No notifications and no one else in sight. I rolled down the window to hear the groan of tall pines and the whisper of the wind brushing through ferns.
The pack sat beside me on the passenger seat. I looked at it, thinking it was heavier than I wanted, but I had been stubborn—brought things I just wanted to bring.
Books I probably wouldn't read. A tin cup. A journal. My father’s old wool blanket, even though I had a sleeping bag.
The emergency poncho was in there too—stuffed into a side pocket. Gina had insisted. I’d almost left it behind on principle.
It had felt like overplanning, like preparing to fail. But I’d kept it. Mostly to end the conversation.
I rolled the window back up, noticing how much I missed the forest air even for that 3 seconds while I grabbed my pack. So I waited for a count of ten, just to feel the shift when the door opened.
And there it was—cool and pine-sweet, the forest wrapping around me like water around a dropped stone.
I shouldered the pack and walked slowly to the trailhead. The first few steps always feel strange, as if the part of me that lives in errands and email is still catching up, trying to figure out why we’ve abandoned all that.
I looked back one more time to the car, hitting the key fob and listening for the “I’m all locked up” sound. Then I enjoyed stuffing the keys deep into my pack, realizing I didn’t want to touch them or see them for days.
I walked. One boot, then the other. Past the last picnic table. Past the sign that explained the rules about campfires.
I wasn't running away, I told myself. I was just leaving things alone long enough to hear what I actually think, instead of what I’m supposed to.
Was there something waiting here? A question, maybe. Or an answer I’d buried. And if I stayed long enough—if I didn’t try too hard to figure it out—could I hear it?
A few hundred yards in, the trail narrowed, and the distant road noise I hadn't even noticed until it was gone faded into silence.
I paused near a crooked tree. Cedar? I shifted my weight. The pack pulled at my shoulders. I adjusted the straps, not because it helped, but because I needed something to do while I hesitated.
Why was I hesitating? Was it fear? Or was it a sense of relief that I was finally unplugged?
What kind of person walks away like this?
I thought of the last text on my phone—from my sister:
Just let us know you're safe.
Thought of the dishes still in the sink, the inbox with things I’d marked “urgent” but had really hoped would solve themselves.
And I thought of Gina. Most people would call her Mom. I never have.
I could already picture the furrow in her brow—the one that says she doesn’t quite approve, but loves you anyway and has decided not to say more than she has to.
This whole trip started as a breath of fresh air. Now it felt like a selfish experiment. Like I had convinced myself of something wise and brave when it was really just... checking out.
I stopped. The forest didn’t care. Birds went on chattering overhead, unconcerned. A chipmunk darted across the trail, vanished into the underbrush like it had an urgent appointment.
The whole forest could really just take me or leave me, but not in a way that felt bad... just... large and stable, predictable.
I could turn back. Still early. Still time to get home, pretend I’d just gone for a long drive.
But the thought of backing away from this—of spending the rest of the week wondering what I missed—tightened something in my chest.
I didn’t have to decide yet if I’d stay the night. That could wait until later.
Right now, just a walk—just letting my legs move under me.
That wasn’t selfish. Wasn’t dangerous. My legs were the only part of me that seemed to know what to do.
I took a deep breath and started forward again. One foot. Then the other.
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Reflect...
What part of you keeps asking for silence—and why do you keep ignoring it?
I know there are plenty of good reasons why this doesn’t feel like the right time for silence. There’s work to be done. Responsibilities. And then there are the smaller, easier things—the distractions that seem harmless, but quietly take the place silence was asking for.
Letting silence into your life—letting it do what it’s meant to do—is a skill. One with its own awkward learning curve.
Start anyway.
Even if you’re bad at it. Even if it feels foreign, selfish, or irresponsible.
It gets easier. It becomes more of a friend. And you’ll be better for it.
(You could start now.)
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