Grief, Gratitude, and a Quiet Kind of Love

 Grief, Gratitude, and a Quiet Kind of Love

There is one aspect of Stoicism that still surprises me. Not in theory, but in how it is perceived by others.

When someone I love dies, whether human or animal, I do not fall apart in the way many expect. I feel sadness, of course, but it is not consuming. What rises first in me is gratitude. Gratitude that our paths crossed at all. Gratitude for the love shared, the time given, the memories that remain untouched by death.

My faith plays a quiet but steady role in this. I believe deeply that those I love are now at peace and in a place more beautiful than anything we know here. That belief does not erase grief. It softens it. It allows me to hold loss without feeling abandoned by life.

This way of grieving has led some to label me as cold or unfeeling. That hurts more than they might realize. Not because their opinions shake me, but because they misunderstand my heart.

I feel deeply. I love fiercely. I simply do not resist what cannot be changed. Stoicism has taught me that grief does not need to be loud to be real. It does not need to consume us to honor love. Acceptance is not indifference. It is respect for the natural order of life and death.

I do not grieve less. I grieve differently.

What looks like calm is not absence of feeling. It is a choice to let grief move through me instead of define me. It is the courage to love fully while knowing nothing is permanent. And perhaps most of all, it is the peace that comes from trusting that love never truly ends, it only changes form.

Lost Highway 84: My First Off Road Adventure Ever

 

Lost Highway 84: My First Off Road Adventure Ever

The year did not ease in quietly.

It arrived on sand, sunlight, and a stretch of coastline called Lost Highway 84.

This was not just my first off road trip of 2026.

It was my first off road adventure ever in Little Ricky.

The idea began quietly, the way good adventures often do. While exploring routes on the onX app, I stumbled across an off road section tracing the Gulf shoreline. It looked doable. Inviting. Just adventurous enough to make my heart beat a little faster.

I first mentioned it to our then neighbors and now friends, Jenn and Todd, asking if they would be willing to give it a try with us. They were in without hesitation. Later, at dinner with our Renegade friends Michelle, Craig, Sammi, and John, the idea came up again. Their response was immediate. That sounds fun. And just like that, a casual thought turned into a plan.

Five vehicles lined up on the sand. Four Jeeps and one Bronco. Everyone but me clearly knew what they were doing. This became apparent almost immediately when everyone else confidently rolled out in two wheel drive, while I engaged four wheel drive and stayed there very comfortably.

Let’s just say confidence levels varied, and mine came with a little extra traction.

I was driving at the back when I noticed the others suddenly pulling over. From a distance, I could see something large rolling on the beach near the waterline. My imagination immediately went into overdrive. In my mind, we had a washed up baby whale.

Without hesitation, I pulled over, grabbed my gloves, and ran toward the group fully prepared for a rescue.

Well. There was nothing to rescue.

What we had actually found was a washed up, bloated wild boar. Definitely not a whale. Definitely very dead. And there I stood, gloves on, heart in the right place, feeling just a little bit silly. The good news is that everyone was kind about it and I got a good laugh at myself. Apparently my compassion sometimes arrives faster than my common sense.

Communication turned out to be another learning moment. We had phones, but no cell service. Lost Highway 84 lived up to its name and reminded us that once you are out there, you are really out there. It made staying together feel important and grounding.

The Gulf Coast showed up in all its understated beauty. Endless sky. Rolling water. Tire tracks weaving through pale sand. We stopped often, sometimes for photos, sometimes just to stand there and breathe it all in. There was laughter, hand signals, and the kind of easy camaraderie that does not require constant conversation.

Off roading, I quickly learned, is not about bravado. It is about awareness. About respecting the terrain, trusting your vehicle, and knowing when to take it slow. Lost Highway 84 turned out to be the perfect classroom. Wide, forgiving, and honest.

Nature, as always, had the final word.

Why This Matters

By the time we turned back, something had shifted. Not dramatically. Not loudly. But quietly and for good.

This mattered because it was my first time trusting myself in a new way. Because I found the route, suggested the idea, and followed it through. Because I did not need to be the most confident or experienced to belong. I just needed to be willing.

It mattered because learning does not stop when we think it should. Because trying something new does not require perfection, only participation. And because sometimes growth looks like staying in four wheel drive while others do not, and being perfectly okay with that.

It also mattered because it reminded me that showing up with a willing heart, even with gloves on for a rescue that does not exist, is never something to be embarrassed about.

My first Jeep off road trip of 2026.

My first off road adventure ever in Little Ricky.

And a reminder that courage often arrives disguised as curiosity and sometimes a slightly overactive imagination.

Here’s to lost highways, patient friends, and the joy of being a beginner.

2025 – A Year of Deepening

 

2025 – A Year of Deepening

As 2025 comes to a close, I find myself pausing more often. Not to rush into what comes next, but to look back with gratitude and honesty at what this year has given me.

2025 was not a loud year. It did not demand attention. Instead, it invited reflection.

Travel continued to shape my days and my heart. Miles passed beneath us, landscapes shifted, and familiar rhythms settled in. Along the road, I was reminded again that home is not defined by walls or addresses, but by presence. By shared moments, kindness exchanged, and the quiet comfort of knowing where and with whom you belong. Travel stripped away excess and brought clarity. It taught me to notice, to adapt, and to trust the unfolding.

Faith accompanied me gently this year. Not as something to explain or defend, but as something lived. It showed up in gratitude whispered rather than proclaimed. In moments of surrender. In the steady sense of being held even when uncertainty remained. Faith became less about answers and more about trust, patience, and grace.

Writing became one of the greatest gifts of 2025. Through words, I found space to process, to heal, and to connect. Writing gave shape to experiences that might otherwise have drifted past unnoticed. It helped me listen to myself more closely and allowed me to share honestly, without needing to polish or perform. What began as reflection slowly deepened into something more meaningful. A way of honoring the journey rather than rushing through it.

Above all, 2025 reminded me of the power of people. Of family and friends who lifted me up simply by being themselves. Of kindness offered freely. Of honesty, warmth, and the quiet strength found in staying true. These connections were the steady thread throughout the year, grounding me no matter where the road led.

Growth this year did not come through dramatic change. It came through gentler days, clearer boundaries, deeper gratitude, and learning when to rest. It came from accepting what is, while still remaining open to what may be.

As I step out of 2025, I carry with me lessons learned, connections strengthened, and a calm confidence that I am exactly where I am meant to be. I leave this year thankful, softened, and hopeful.

Here’s to carrying the light of 2025 forward, with faith, gratitude, and an open heart.

Morning Magic at Delta Downs

 Morning Magic at Delta Downs

Our night at Delta Downs Racetrack turned out absolutely beautiful. We found the perfect spot right beside the track, and as dawn began to break, I took the pups out for their early walk. The air was still cool, carrying that soft mix of dew and hay, and in the distance I could hear the rhythmic thunder of hooves.

The purebreds were already out being exercised—muscles rippling under the morning light, their breath visible in little clouds against the pale sky. There’s something mesmerizing about watching such power move with such grace.

For a few quiet moments, the world felt perfectly balanced. Just me, the dogs, and the horses greeting the day in their own way. Pure beauty and peacefulness.

Good morning from Louisiana. 🌅

Kentucky Roads & Renegade Hearts

 

Kentucky Roads & Renegade Hearts

There’s something about coming back to Kentucky that feels like exhaling. The hills seem to rise and fall in rhythm with your heartbeat, the fences stretch for miles around pastures of sleek horses, and the air hums with quiet confidence, the kind that says, “You’re among friends here.”

For us, Kentucky isn’t just another stop on the map. It’s where the laughter of the Renegade family echoes through the campgrounds, where we reunite with familiar faces, and where the simple joy of belonging fills the air like the sound of bluegrass on a summer night.

The Bluegrass Rally

We rolled into the Bluegrass Truck • Bus • RV Rally with that familiar mix of excitement and “where do we park?” energy. But as soon as we were settled, we were wrapped in that unmistakable Renegade family warmth: waves, hugs, and laughter from people who just get this lifestyle.

There’s something wonderfully grounding about being surrounded by folks who understand what it means to travel full-time, troubleshoot water pumps, chase sunshine, and swap campground stories like postcards. The rally was the perfect balance of learning, laughter, and those little spontaneous moments that make the Renegade community so special.

Kyle, James, and Beth from Bluegrass Truck • Bus • RV made everything flow seamlessly, and their tech Bill Gast deserves a gold star for kindness and craftsmanship. While we were out at the racetrack having fun, Bill quietly showed up at the RV park, fixed our skylight leak, and replaced the vent that had lost a battle with a tree branch. It doesn’t get more professional or more generous than that.

People like them remind me that customer service is really just kindness in action.

Lucy at Her Best

Of course, none of it would have been the same without our girl Lucy. She was born to roam these roads, and Kentucky brought out her very best.

We left our Audi Bella resting safely in Kentucky while heading north to pick up Lou, our 20-foot enclosed trailer in Putnam, New York. It was just Lucy and us again, and she didn’t miss a beat.

On the open road she purred with confidence, holding her speed up every incline like she owned those hills. Backing into a Harvest Host site felt effortless, and even a Walmart parking lot, the true test of RV grace, was no challenge for her. Her turn radius is nothing short of miraculous.

At seven years old, she still has the heart and strength of a brand-new rig. Smooth, steady, and powerful. And when we filled up that morning? 9.4 miles per gallon, our best yet.

Sure, Lou is a necessity for protecting Bella and hauling our extras, but this trip reminded me just how spunky and amazing Lucy truly is on her own. She isn’t just a vehicle. She’s home, freedom, and friendship on six wheels.

Here’s to Lucy, the Renegade with heart, muscle, and soul.

Through the Heart of Horse Country

When rally life settled and the crowds thinned, we took Lucy out for a little joyride through horse country. The roads around Georgetown and Midway were lined with white fences and rolling pastures, each one prettier than the last.

We stopped for lunch in Midway, at a restaurant whose name escapes me now, something with barrels, which felt fitting for Kentucky. The food was good, but it was the laughter that made it memorable. There’s something about small-town hospitality that just seeps right into you.

The drive back was slow and easy, windows down, music low, that perfect mix of sunshine and gratitude. These are the moments I wish I could bottle.

Reflections from the Bluegrass

Kentucky reminded me, once again, that this journey isn’t just about miles or destinations. It’s about people who greet you like old friends, about rigs that carry not just your stuff but your spirit, and about the quiet joy that comes from living this way, one road, one rally, one connection at a time.

There’s a peace in knowing that no matter where we travel next, there’s always a circle of familiar faces, ready smiles, and a little bluegrass playing somewhere in the distance.

Author’s Note

To everyone who makes this lifestyle so special, the friends who wave from across the campground, the teams who keep our rigs rolling, and the family we’ve chosen on the road, thank you. You remind me every day that the best journeys are built on heart, not horsepower. 💙