If someone gave me a frequent flyer card for doctor visits and hospital runs, I’d probably be platinum status by now. Yesterday was my checkup. Today, 600 km for my daughter’s orthopedic rehab stay. My car isn’t just a car anymore, it’s basically a second home with better snacks.

And once again, I’ve assumed my rightful role: the passenger princess, keeper of music playlists, snack distributor, and self-declared master of maps (okay, Google Maps is the real hero, but let me have this).

Yesterday the drive was filled with noise in my head, questions, reflections, that whole mental merry-go-round of “how was last month?” and “what’s next for me?” But today, it’s silence. Heavy silence. The kind that makes your chest ache, because my little partner-in-crime won’t be home for a month. Who’s going to walk the dog with me? Who’s going to show me the latest obscure rock band she’s found? Who’s going to casually drop bizarre facts into our day, like “did you know lobsters pee out of their faces?”

Leaving her there tears me apart, but at the same time, I’m grateful, she’s stepping forward on her path to healing, and that’s worth every mile.

Back on the highway, I notice how different it feels from yesterday. Yesterday was darkness, today is light. A poetic shift, as if the road itself is reminding me.

Somewhere between the coffee stops and snack breaks, my brain does what it does best, turns the highway into an analogy. Every car we pass? That’s a life experience. The ones behind us are already conquered challenges, stories now in the rearview mirror. The ones ahead are future struggles, waiting to be overtaken. And just like on the road, sometimes you need to floor the pedal to blast past, other times you glide by effortlessly.

This past year has been like an endless traffic jam of challenges, some required me to push the pedal to the max, others just a steady pace. But looking back at the miles I’ve covered, I can honestly say: I’m proud. Proud of my resilience, and of how much I’ve learned about my body, how it reacts, what it needs, and what it can actually handle. I was already living fairly healthy, but this journey has nudged me to go deeper, to pay attention in ways I never did before.

And the crown jewel? I quit smoking, six whole months smoke-free. That’s half a year of not lighting up, half a year of proving to myself that I can leave bad habits in the rearview mirror. Paired with my steady sauna pit stops, it feels like I’ve finally shifted into a healthier gear, one that’s carrying me further than I thought possible.

So here I am, watching the road, queuing songs, cracking jokes, and letting life unfold one kilometer at a time. The cars behind me are my past battles. The ones ahead are future challenges. But right here, in this moment, the road feels open, bright, and strangely full of possibility.

And that, for today, is enough.

The rearview holds the sickness; the headlights chase the future.

It’s pitch black outside, the kind of darkness that feels heavier than silence. The clock reminds me it’s the sacred hour when most people are still tangled in their dream worlds,  but not me. No, I’m already on the highway, chasing the horizon, 300 kilometers to go before my 9 a.m. appointment with my Lyme specialist.

Because I’m chronically early (and chronically late in my head), I always begin these trips with a buffer. I’d rather sit waiting for an hour in the doctor’s parking lot than arrive ten minutes late. That doubt already crept into my dreams last night. Did I even write down the right date? So at 3 a.m., I shuffled to my diary, found the slip from last time, and exhaled in relief. The date is right. Off we go.

As always, I ride as the self-proclaimed passenger princess. My royal duties? Managing the map, curating the playlist, and distributing snacks. It’s a noble job description, though in reality, it mostly means keeping us entertained while the kilometers stretch on. Somewhere between the laughter, the yawns, and the coffee sips, I have to remind myself: I am blessed. Even in the storm, even when life feels impossible, I am enough, we are enough in this moment riding togheter to a doctors appointment.

I watch as we pass car after car, their headlights fading into the rearview mirror. And it strikes me: this is what healing feels like. Every vehicle left behind is another layer of illness, another stubborn bacteria shrinking in the distance. The road is long, but each kilometer carries me further from sickness and closer to myself. Even when I feel drained, hopeless, and exhausted, I’m still in motion — and that’s what matters. At least now I know what I’m fighting.

A big thank you to my bestie for the pep talk this weekend, you reminded me I’m still one step ahead in this game.

Now I sit in the dark car, the two of us moving together through the night. The car feels like a capsule of light, floating through the vast blackness, and I’m grateful I don’t drift through it alone. Even when our relationship feels heavy, even when we stumble, we still find a way to steer forward, together.

Blessed doesn’t even cover it.

The night may be heavy, but dawn is always certain.