“There is so much peace in knowing that you will not miss out on what’s meant for you.” — Unknown
I’ve walked, cycled, and ridden on horseback across America. At the ages of 18-19, 20, and 21-23, respectfully.
Perhaps the only person to have done all three.
Yet what I have been remiss to tell anyone until now — save for my family and a few aspiring adventurers who have emailed me for advice — is that I am 2:1 on successful first starts.
That’s failures to successes.
I originally left to walk across America in July of 2018, immediately after my 18th birthday. It was scorching hot, triple digits, in Delaware. I was instantly drenched in sweat, blisters.
Worst of all was not knowing where I would sleep my first night out. I had the gall to knock on a strangers’ door, but the couple who answered were too normal—white picket fence, suburban neighborhood types —and, thus, half-convinced I was insane. They invited me into their home, but after an uncomfortable, precarious hour of trying to ease their minds about me, I had to quietly excuse myself from their dinner table and flee to a nearby patch of woods to stealth camp in.
It was mortifying.
I remember feeling the strangest homesickness while lying in my tent that night. This searing, soul-deep loneliness like I’ve never felt before or since that said, God, what am I doing here?
I tried not to let the encounter shake me. I woke up the next morning ready as ever.
My third night out, I hastily pitched my camp at the edge of an unmarked cornfield after sobbing to my mom on the phone for the better part of the evening, in complete hysterics over not knowing where else to go.
On day five, drained and defeated, I called my mom again, this time to tell her to pick me up.
I was done.
It was as everyone expected. My family was simply waiting for the call to come.
The following morning, I waited for my mom on the side of the road. Disillusioned.
The whole ride home, this sinking feeling grew in my stomach, like a string was being stretched tauter the further we drove away. I wondered if I had made a mistake.
And then, almost instantly upon getting back, I was certain that I had.
I told my Mom I wanted to try walking across America again!
She shook her head.
A similar thing would happen when I left to cycle across America in November of 2020.
I had a strong first day out. Nothing felt amiss. Then, on the second day, the wind suddenly got knocked out of my sails. This was even more inexplicable than before, as now I had mileage under my belt to prove, if only to others, that I could do what I said I would.
It didn’t matter.
My heart left me right there in the middle of the road. I could come up with a myriad of excuses as to why — winter was a poor time for departure, the pandemic was still in full swing, etc. — but none of those reasons are really why my want abandoned me.
The journey just didn’t feel right.
My gut told me to give it up, so I did.
Again.
“This comeback is personal. It is an apology to myself.” — Unknown
Do I regret these failings?
No.
At the time? I’m sure I did. I was dejected. Miserable.
But that’s kind of the point.
In both instances, it took going home for me to recognize that that’s not where I really wanted to be.
My longing for the familiar only brought a false sense of security and comfort incongruent with true growth. There was nothing better waiting for me back home despite how much it felt that way.
Once I opened my eyes to this truth by suffering in place for a while longer, the next time I worked up the courage to leave my bedroom, I did without ever looking back.
During the entirety of my walk across America in 2019, I didn’t feel that aching loneliness again. No matter how hard things got, quitting never once cross my mind.
I could be crumbled to my knees sobbing in the midst of a thunderstorm, and I would still think that in some way “it is an honor and a privilege to be here.” I carried with me this newfound sense of purpose, an understanding that this journey I am on is my life and so I must live it all. The good and the bad felt unequivocally meant for me to meet. So much so that I knew I would die before I stopped either pursuit, as what alternative is there to life save for death?
Walking across America was not meant for me in 2018. Neither was cycling in 2020.
I am grateful to have failed on my first tries because taking back those failures would change everything I love about the successes I eventually had.
“if you went back and fixed all the mistakes you’ve made, you would erase yourself” – Unknown
Why am I only willing to admit this now?
Once I had walked and cycled across America successfully, what did I have to lose by being honest about failing previously?
For years, I could not answer that question. I played my cards close without really understanding why I did.
Then, the day came that I announced — both to myself and the public — that I wanted to cross the country on horseback.
I had never ridden a horse before.
My partner for the journey would be a wild mustang who had never been touched before.
I needed people to believe in my ability to make it happen enough to offer their support.
Suddenly, I was thankful that the world did not know about my track record, the fact that I had a 0% success rate at first starts.
Ha.
That doesn’t matter much anymore, does it?
So it is time to spill the beans. 🙂 🫘
