The first time I made this drive
We were on our way to move in with Sean. I was 22 years old.
Growing up in Wisconsin, I thought snowbirds were weak. I also thought Florida was one of the last places I’d live—when Sean started applying for jobs and asked how I felt about various parts of the country, I said something about being flexible but “not seeing myself in, like, Florida”.
Today? We don’t want to live anywhere full time (this is, after all, the greatest van life allure) but I’ve come around to spending winter near the beach. After a lovely month visiting friends and family, we’re headed to the state where we first lived as a little family—the place that (politics aside) claims a huge slice of my heart and offers a deep well of nostalgia—to slow down again.
Whenever we quickly make this drive from the midwest to the sunshine state, the road transports me to April 2020. My vision splits. On one side, life as it is now: Sean in the driver’s seat, my feet on the dash, a sleepy heeler in her travel crate. On the other, life as it was then: Me gripping the wheel of a rented Tahoe, Scout wedged amid all my worldly belongings, pandemic anxiety hanging over the trip—entirely self contained—as we crawled across the country to move in with my boyfriend.
The first time I made this drive, I wasn’t certain I’d marry Sean. (I hoped.)
The first time I made this drive, I cried so hard I nearly needed to pull over while listening to “Slow Down” by Nicole Nordeman. I thought about the way my parents wanted life to open up for me just because I was theirs, and I tore in two moving away.
The first time I made this drive, our world knew nothing about COVID-19 except its terror.
The first time I made this drive, I arrived in darkness to a tiny campground halfway between my old home and my new one. I begged Scout to pee in the rain. She pressed herself against my legs atop blankets in the cargo area for a fitful night of rest.
The first time I made this drive, I forgot about time zones and accidentally woke my friend (Sean’s friend, really) with a phone call from Georgia to Denver. Two years later—almost to the day—he officiated our wedding.
The first time I made this drive, I talked to myself and to Scout over the steering wheel, spewing spoken word poetry attempts and nonsense, in awe that I was on such an adventure.
The first time I made this drive, I played Home of the Strange by Young The Giant on repeat. Sean and I saw them live together less than a year into our love. Even as the miles waned, I couldn’t feel close enough to him.
The first time I made this drive, fire ants attacked Scout at a rest area just over the Florida border and I called my mom in a panic thinking my beloved dog was having a seizure. (In a few months she would have her first, making epilepsy forever part of our lives.)
The first time I made this drive, I had only two tattoos. I was scared and optimistic and grateful. I was just starting to like—actually like—myself. Scout still barked and growled at almost every dog she saw. I wasn’t strong enough to lift a full gallon of milk with my non-dominant hand. Van life was a pipe dream. Sean was not my husband and not my fiance, just the guy I was willing to bet on.
It feels like every domino fell how it was supposed to.