Seven years ago, I sat in a cold courtroom and ended my marriage.

I didn’t mark it on my calendar or plan to commemorate it. In fact, I had to look up the court records recently when someone asked me about the date.

Seven years of quiet rebuilding. Seven years of finding my way back to myself. Seven years of discovering that sometimes, the end of one journey is simply the beginning of a more authentic one.

In the aftermath of my divorce, I chose silence. No dramatic social media announcements. No name change. No divorce parties. I simply retreated inward, creating space for whatever needed to emerge. Looking back, I realize this wasn’t avoidance—it was preservation. Every “What happened?” felt like reopening a wound that hadn’t quite healed. Every “Are you okay?” reminded me that I wasn’t—not yet.

But here’s what I discovered: sometimes you have to get lost to find your way home to yourself.

For me, home wasn’t a place—it was a state of being that I rediscovered through travel. Before my divorce, I played it safe, sticking to comfortable, predictable destinations because they felt manageable. But post-divorce me? She decided to ride camels through the Sahara Desert at sunset. She explored ancient Colombian cities with wonder in her eyes. She watched hot air balloons paint the sky over Turkish valleys at sunrise, each moment a reminder that beauty exists everywhere, even in the midst of healing.

There’s profound medicine in standing in a place that once terrified you and realizing you’re not just surviving—you’re thriving. Each passport stamp became a testament to my resilience, each new destination a reminder that I was stronger than I thought, braver than I knew, and capable of so much more than I’d believed during those years I’d lost myself in my marriage.

I remember standing alone at an Adele concert in Barcelona—a trip originally planned with my ex-husband—and suddenly remembering the fearless young woman who once taught English in Spain. As thousands of strangers sang their hearts out around me, I made a sacred promise to myself: I would find her again. Not the person I was before, but the person this journey was shaping me to become.

The universe has a funny way of turning our deepest wounds into our greatest gifts. Today, I run a travel business helping others—many healing from their own life transitions—discover the transformative power of experiencing new places and cultures. I’ve watched women who thought they could never travel alone climb mountains in Morocco. I’ve seen people working through depression find joy in Cuban street food and salsa dancing. I’ve witnessed countless moments of courage, connection, and pure joy as travelers step out of their comfort zones and into new versions of themselves.

Here’s what I want you to know if you’re in the middle of your own healing journey: the pain won’t last forever. Those moments when you can barely breathe? They’ll pass. That feeling that you’ve failed? It’s not true. You’re not failing—you’re being brave enough to choose yourself.

Yes, there will still be triggers years later. A song, a smell, a casual comment from a stranger might suddenly transport you back. But each time it happens, the sting lessens. Eventually, you’re left with something that looks less like a wound and more like a map of where you’ve been—and how far you’ve come.

Divorce wasn’t the end of my story. It was an invitation to write a new one. My journey led me from a courthouse in Wisconsin to sunset camel rides in Morocco, from feeling lost to helping others find their way.

Where will yours take you? The blank pages are waiting. Make them extraordinary.

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