On Monday, I started the drive from Los Angeles to Oaxaca, moving my whole existence 40 hours south.

Unlike when I drove through Mexico the first time, this time, I know exactly how hard it is. This time, I have one less rabbit. This time, my partner and I are breaking up, not starting our relationship.

I haven’t felt “at home” for a year and a half, since I left for that first trip in search of a new life.

But this time, I know exactly where home is. It’s waiting for me. I just have to get there. 

I’m 2 days into 2 weeks of this solo drive. And this time, I am really feeling the solo-ness.

As an only child and recovering independence addict, I used to do everything by myself and not think twice about it. 3 months driving alone through Mexico? No problem. 

But something changed. Since opening myself up to deeper connection, finding my people, and letting myself receive love and care, it’s not so easy being alone anymore. 

I was so used to it for so long, I didn’t realize what I was missing. I didn’t realize how much it hurt. But now those scabs are fresh, pink skin. And I FEEL it.

I feel everything so much - the heartbreak, the incremental progress, the sweetness of companionship - life is at full volume. And I am trying to meet it with gratitude, in addition to crushing heartbreak, fear and exhaustion. 

My companion on this long drive is a seven-year-old rabbit, Gnocchi.

This time last week, I thought she was dying. She’s recovering from health issues that left her unable to breathe and unable to move. I had to wake up every few hours to clear out her nose. I had to hold up her head so she could drink.

Oh my god, how precious life is when you think it’s over. When you think you might not have another day, every moment has so much gravity. Every flop, every cuddle, every shared glance, almost wasn’t and may not be tomorrow.

But she’s getting better. A couple days ago, she started hopping again. I’m crying right now looking at her sitting contentedly under the desk in this hotel room.

I cry when I think about how grateful I am to have her with me on this long journey.

I cry when she drinks water. I cry when she’s stable enough to groom herself. I cry when she gets comfortable and rests.

I am so affected by her every movement, because I am ACUTELY aware of her fragility. And I have lost some of the beings I’ve loved most this last few months. So every little development, every little blessing, every little connection, hits my heart so hard. 

On this drive with this precious little creature, I can’t plan more than a few hours ahead. I have to live in this exact moment, slow down and take it easy enough to actually enjoy it. I have to surrender to the absolute enormity of existing in a body on Planet Earth.

I can’t take anything for granted. I can’t take anything too seriously.

The point is to feel it and enjoy it. Not necessarily to sob for all 40 hours looking at her weepy eye and bald chin and wobbly legs and stress about if she’s living or dying. 

Because she’s living AND dying. We all are. 

So I cry.

And I kiss her soft forehead.

And I laugh when she can’t get back up after a sharp turn.

Four days ago, Saturday, September 2nd, I moved the last of my belongings out of my apartment in LA and handed over the keys.

I no longer have a place of my own. Everything I own is either at my partner’s place or in my suitcase. We are on our way east, to visit our hometowns. We grew up 30 minutes apart, and recently found out we were born in the same hospital. We met last summer in LA, around the same time I realized I no longer wanted to live there.

I’ve been in the middle of this transition for a while. Last summer, I started planning a road trip through Mexico in search of the next chapter. I left on December 4th. On February 3rd, I reached Puerto Escondido in Oaxaca. I only stayed for a week, but I knew I had to come back.

When I returned to LA at the end of February - after three months of solo travel that felt like a year, seeing more places than I could wrap my head around, getting so sick I could barely drive, spending days shitting soup from random airbnbs (and once in my pants) along the 44-hour route home - I thought it would feel good to stay put, somewhere familiar.

It did not. After about 48 hours of access to hot water and normal bowel movements, it was clear that those things were less important than what I found across the border.

My partner tried to cheer me up and show me the best of LA, while every bone in my body cried for Mexico. This went on for 4 months until I could get back to Oaxaca in July. I needed to see what more than a week there would feel like. 

After emerging from another, much shorter period of extreme sickness upon arrival (here’s my post about that), life started feeling really good. I was making friends, becoming part of the community and finding more creativity and purpose. It felt like home.

I remember the first time I got in the ocean at what would become my favorite beach. The sun was setting. The warm, teal water merged with purple, pink and blue sky. As I bobbed in the waves, I thought, “Okay. I can leave my apartment in LA.” 

Less than 2 months later, here I am. I did it. I am sitting by the indoor pool at a Marriott in Provo, Utah, finally writing that travel blog all my friends wanted from that first trip to Mexico. Better late and marginally related than never…

It’s a unique, untethered moment. I am between the life I had in LA and whatever is next. I am an entirely different person. What better time to revisit the past, see my family, attend my 15-year high school reunion, and visit New York City for the first time since fleeing the misery that led me to start over and move to LA?

Another rebirth? Here I come.