The Bipolar Path

It’s the first 24 hours that I’m not crying. Haven’t shed a single tear. Yesterday, I packed my things, took my dog, and drove three hours—to the desert.

I came chasing emptiness, and I found it. But not the hollow kind. The wide, quiet kind. The kind that doesn’t echo your pain back at you but absorbs it. Out here, I can hear my breath. I can hear my thoughts. I can hear myself again.

Nights are still hard. That’s when I miss his hug the most. Not the words or the plans or the future-talk—just that one silent thing that used to tell me I wasn’t alone.

But here’s the twist: I’m also starting to feel something I didn’t even know I was missing in the relationship. Freedom. The kind of freedom that lets me just be. To move without shrinking. To drive into nowhere without asking anyone if it’s okay. To take up space with my sadness and still feel worthy of love.

That freedom—it’s the one thing I’m learning to give myself now.

I’m proud of how I’m showing up for myself. He once told me something that stuck: “Try imagining you’re someone you love. Someone who really needs help. And then help her.” That’s what I’m doing now. Not as a performance, but as a lifeline. As a practice.

My dog doesn’t ask questions. She trusts the road. She curls against me with this steady loyalty that reminds me—I’m still beloved. She doesn’t care where we go, as long as we’re together. That kind of love feels ancient. Pure.

The desert has changed something in me. It’s not teaching me how to stop missing him—but it’s teaching me how to stop waiting. Time doesn’t rule anything here. The sun moves. The mountains stand. And I’m learning to do the same.

There are small things that feel like symbols. The way the mountains draw soft lines against the sky—like reminders that healing isn’t linear, but still beautiful. That every scar becomes part of the landscape.

I’m afraid some memories will fade. Like the night hugs. Like the stillness I found in his arms. But I don’t need to cling to them anymore. I only need to honor them.

To my future self: I hope you keep going. I hope you remember how strong you were when it was hard. And how free you felt, even in the sadness.

You’re already becoming the version of you who is at peace with herself.

And that is everything.