One Woman’s Journey West—on a Motorcycle, with a Dream and a Bit of Horse Hair in Her Helmet
Some decisions come loud. Others come quietly—like a whisper you can’t ignore, even if it makes no sense on paper.
When it came time to head to Chase, British Columbia for the next leg of my Gestalt training, the plan was simple: drive. I’d made the trip before—to Colorado, to class, to growth—but this time was different. This time, the location changed. The road was longer. And all my usual options… well, they started to fall away.
My truck desperately needed an alignment and an oil change. My dad, always my mechanic and voice of reason, said if I took it, I’d come home without tires. He recommended I take my car instead—unaware that it, too, was throwing warning lights and begging for a mechanic’s attention. Not exactly road-trip ready.
Still, I held the thought. Quietly. Closely.
It stirred something in me—freedom, defiance, a hunger for clarity.
So I mentioned—just quietly—on my birthday to my mom, that maybe I’d ride the motorcycle.
She didn’t love the idea. But she didn’t shut it down, either. She just offered a quiet, foreboding story about my uncle riding his bike from Washington and never riding again. (Thanks, Mom.)
Then she looked at me and said, “I don’t like it… but you’re a grown woman, and you can do what you want.”
She’d also given me a box to drop off at my aunt and uncle’s. But when I told her I might be riding the bike, she paused and said gently, “That box can go another time.”
She never told my dad. And somehow, that silence—along with the box left behind—felt like her version of support. A quiet understanding between us, unspoken but deeply felt.
I didn’t tell my boyfriend until the morning I was leaving. When I finally said it out loud—“I’m riding the bike”—he pleaded with me not to. Tried every tactic. Reason. Emotion. Safety concerns. When that didn’t work… he didn’t even come home that night to see me off.
But I went anyway.
Here’s the truth: I had already made the decision.
I needed this ride. Not just to get to class, but to meet myself on the road.
So I packed light. I strapped on my helmet.
And sure enough, like always—there was horse hair tucked inside it.
Because of course there was. The horses go where I go. Even into the unknown.
I rolled away from the farm in Glyndon with no playlist, no co-pilot, and no clear idea how the next few days would unfold. Just a full tank, a stubborn heart, and the road calling west. Each mile westward was part prayer, part protest, part deep breath.