Welcome to a love letter from my soul—written in the in-between moments, the quiet pauses, and the deep breaths after the heavy days.
Life has been loud lately. Messy. Unpredictable. And if I’ve learned anything through it all, it’s this: you keep going.
Even after the tears.
Even when you don’t feel ready.
Even when life knocks the wind out of you and you’re left piecing yourself back together one deep breath at a time.
This post—these words—are proof that I’m still here. Still choosing to rise, even when it’s uncomfortable. Still choosing to believe that moving forward doesn’t require perfection—just presence, courage, and a little grace.
I’ve been moving through so much — building my business, managing emotions, solo parenting, keeping faith. It’s okay that my body and brain feel overloaded right now.
Unless you’ve walked in these shoes, I don’t think people truly understand how hard it is to do life on your own. To make every decision, juggle the daily demands, take care of yourself and your kids—it’s fucking hard.
Lately, I’ve been reflecting on where I was and where I am now. The truth? There are still hard seasons. There are challenges I face every single day. But what’s been the hardest isn’t the to-do list or the logistics—it’s the lack of emotional support. It’s not easy when there’s no one standing behind you saying, “Laura, you’ve got this.” “Keep going.” “How are you going to kick some ass today?”
So over time, I’ve learned to be that person for myself.
I’ve learned to believe in me.
And let me tell you—building that kind of faith in myself wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t easy. But it’s been everything.
One thing I do know is this: the after—the part that follows the darkest or hardest moments—tends to be the most beautiful.
It’s when we finally see the light again, and we wait with bated breath as it gently touches our face… seeps into our chest… and, at last, brings our head and heart into the same sacred, aligned space.
I woke up early on a Friday morning, equal parts nervous and excited, knowing I was about to do something I’d never done before.
I sat in my space, lit a candle, repeated my own words back to myself… and pulled a card.
The Ace of Cups.
This card is all about new emotional beginnings—open-hearted energy and divine flow. It often symbolizes connection, creativity, healing, and the start of something deeply fulfilling. And in that quiet, candlelit moment, I knew exactly why it showed up.
I’m stepping into something expansive—emotionally and spiritually. This backpacking trip might be more than just a physical adventure; it could be a heart-opening experience.
I’m ready to receive. I’ve been doing the work—in life, in business, in healing—and now your cup is being filled. You’re aligned, open, and receptive.
There’s potential for new, meaningful relationships. Even if you’re heading into the woods with strangers, the Ace of Cups suggests soul-level connection. Trust that the right people will find you.
This wasn’t just about hiking into the wilderness—it’s a spiritual reset. A chance to disconnect from the noise and reconnect with myself. The Ace of Cups felt like a blessing. A quiet nudge from the universe reminding me that this moment, this journey, holds something sacred.
There are fears that live deep in our core—quiet, dormant—until something activates them. Until we step outside of our comfort zone and realize what’s really been living beneath the surface.
For me, one of those fears has always been driving to unfamiliar places. It didn’t really surface until after my divorce. I had relied so heavily on my partner for navigation—for guidance, in more ways than one—that I didn’t realize how much confidence I’d handed away.
When I said yes to a three-day backpacking trip with total strangers, the idea of it felt exciting. The concept of hiking through the woods, disconnected and immersed in nature, sounded freeing. And so I let that excitement carry me past the parts that, honestly, scared the hell out of me.
What I was most worried about wasn’t the wilderness or the strangers—it was whether I’d be physically able to keep up. Would I be strong enough? Could my body handle it?
So, I trained.
For weeks leading up to the trip, I made a promise to myself: move every day. Nothing extreme, just intentional. And then, little by little, I started training with weight—loading a backpack with more each time to simulate what I’d need to carry.
On the first day I walked with 35 pounds strapped to my back. It was heavy. It was uncomfortable. I doubted myself more than once on that walk. But I finished it—and I was proud (and drenched).
As I got back to my car and peeled the backpack off, I paused. It hit me—35 pounds, plus the pack, was close to 40. And I stood there, realizing: I’ve lost nearly 50 pounds.
The weight I had just carried was less than the weight I’ve already released from my body.
Talk about a reminder.
That moment stayed with me—not just for what it meant physically, but for what it mirrored emotionally.
We finally reached day one.
I packed my bag the night before—after a few weeks of equal parts procrastination and prep. I had picked out my meals, snacks, and necessities, and stuffed those into the bag too.
I left the house with plenty (even extra) time for the 2 hour and 45 minute drive to the trailhead. I stopped for gas and kept on driving. Route 80 feels like home to me. It doesn’t really matter where I am on it—I think it’s the connection to knowing it’ll eventually lead me home.
With nearly three hours ahead of me, I eased into the drive — and into my own headspace. Good music on, windows down, sunroof wide open. A woman on a mission: clarity, growth, expansion.
My hair whipped in the wind and I smiled to myself — damn, I thought, I am so powerful.
Look at me. Look at what I’m doing.
I felt completely open — like nothing could stop me.
And then I thought about the card I pulled earlier.
Could this be it?
Could this finally be the support I’ve been asking for?
And just like that… the tears came. This is therapy.
About two hours into my drive, I still had plenty of time. I made my exit and decided to pull into Aldi to grab some cold water. I parked the car and unlocked my phone. Within a minute or so, a glaring red message popped up on the dash with a simultaneous beep:
“Engine coolant over temperature.”
Super.
I pulled up ChatGPT and typed in the warning message. I’m scanning through the checklist (after going through this a month ago, I’m practically an expert):
- “Pull over in a safe location as soon as possible and shut off the engine.”
- “Wait 15–20 minutes to let the engine cool.”
Did I happen to mention it was 98 degrees outside at the time?
“Check the coolant level. Add coolant if necessary. Take caution—it may be extremely hot.”
Perfect.
“Do NOT drive far—just far enough to get to a mechanic if the light goes off.”
“If the warning comes back on after topping off, get it towed.”
Awesome.
I did a quick Google search and found a shop less than a mile away. Alright—this is what we’re doing. I fucking got this. I’ll cruise over to the shop, they’ll top me off with coolant, and I’ll be back on the road within 30 minutes—still early to meet everyone.
This is how we get shit done.
Laura, you so got this.
I arrived at the shop and walked through the door with so much confidence, I surprised even myself. I looked at the woman behind the counter and asked, “Would someone be able to top me off with a little coolant? I’m on my way somewhere and just need to keep rolling.”
She dipped into the garage for a moment and came back with an answer I wasn’t expecting.
“I’m sorry—we can’t help you.”
Dumbfounded that this was even an option, I said, “Really? That sucks.”
She shrugged slightly. “Yeah, I’m sorry. We don’t have anyone available.”
I took a breath and stayed calm. “Okay… is there another shop nearby you’d recommend I try?”
She nodded and gave me the name of one. “It’s not far—go out to the light, make two left turns. It’s about two miles away.”
Getting turned away at a garage while my car was overheating was literally the last thing I expected.
I got back in my car and tried to ground myself.
“Okay. I just need to get this two miles and it’ll all be okay. God, if you’re listening—just two miles. Please. I really don’t want to miss this.”
I started the engine, pulled out to the light—and the beeping wouldn’t stop.
As I eased through the intersection, I knew this wasn’t going to work. The car wasn’t going to make it.
So I pulled over to the side of the road, flipped my flashers on, and said:
“Okay… next.”
It was 98 degrees. The AC wasn’t an option. The car was off. I was sweating, flustered, and now stuck on the side of the road.
I opened the AAA app and requested service. Honestly, I didn’t even know what I was asking for—I was just hoping someone could give me a little coolant and send me on my way.
Within a few minutes, my phone rang. It was the nearest tow truck driver.
“Now, what’s going on?” he asked.
I explained everything—that the car overheated, the warning light came on, and the first garage had turned me away. I told him I wasn’t really sure what to do next—I just knew I needed help.
“Well,” he said, “I’m not allowed to do any work on the car, but I can tow it somewhere for you. The thing is—it’s Friday afternoon. You’re not going to find anyone to look at it.”
Dude. Not what I need to hear right now.
He was nearby and offered to at least come take a look.
This is Zach.
Zach’s overwhelming limiting belief was starting to wear on me. I get it—he was being realistic—but I find it really hard to accept no, especially when I have an agenda. Especially when it’s something I’ve looked forward to—and worked hard toward—for six weeks.
I told him what I was doing, that I only had another 40 miles to go.
“Don’t tell me no one will help,” I said. “That just makes me sad.”
When he opened the hood, it was clear—at least to someone who knows what they’re looking for. I had a giant hole in my main radiator hose. No wonder I wasn’t going anywhere.
He couldn’t fix it. He asked if I had anyone mechanically inclined who could help.
I didn’t. And even if I did, they were two hours away.
So I talked him into helping me call around to find someone who could help. Eventually, we found a shop about three miles away. He loaded up my car, and I climbed into the tow truck.
We arrived at Mr. Tire. Zach wished me luck on the hike—and on the car—and went on his way.
The guy behind the counter at Mr. Tire looked a little irritated, but I kept smiling. He said, “Let me check in these other people and then they’ll take a look.”
While I waited, I kept texting Audrey—who hosts these amazing trips—keeping her in the loop the whole time.
And here’s the thing…
The number one hesitation I had about going on this trip? I didn’t want to keep anyone “waiting” – I didn’t want to hold up the group in any capacity.
And now, here I was. About half an hour late. Still in hiking clothes. Still stuck in a tire shop parking lot.
A few minutes later, the guy (I so wish I had gotten his name) came back out.
“You’re not getting out of here today,” he said. “We won’t have the part until tomorrow. And just so you know, it’s not going to be cheap.”
My heart sank.
I updated Audrey. One of the women suggested getting an Uber.
So I had two choices:
Get a hotel for the night, pick up the car tomorrow, and go home.
Or… try to get an Uber to the trail and keep going.
It took four tries to get a driver.
But Chris came through for me.
He showed up. He believed in my mission.
This is Chris.
We had nearly an hour to chat about what I was doing, where he was in life—and by the time we rolled up to the trail, he was naming off the things he really loved doing in life.
Audrey came right up to the car and hugged me tight. I couldn’t believe I made it. I was so grateful these ladies waited for me—we had no time to lose!
After I grabbed my bag and said goodbye to Chris, she immediately said, “I can’t wait to see what rock you choose,” and led me to her car, trunk open.
I examined the rocks—the shapes, the colors—and didn’t want to hesitate and let my intuition pass me by. (The pink one in the middle)
I picked up the one that spoke to me, held it cold in my hand, and flipped it over.
“Faith.”
If I said I didn’t feel like crying in that moment, I’d be lying.
I put my pack on. Audrey helped me adjust the straps. And off into the woods we went.
I had no idea what I was walking into as I stepped rock over rock.
Getting there was only half the story.
Next week, I’ll share what happened once I finally stepped into the woods—and into myself.
xo,
Laura
