Part 1 - The Call for Adventure
What would you do, if the last 5 years of your life were absolutely meaningless to the person you believed was the love of your life? My grieving brain decided that living off grid in a van by the ocean was what I needed to reset mentally and emotionally. The ocean heals. I can easily cry at home on my bed or at a beach in California. A change of scenery allows for new habits to form and less distractions for self-reflection to rediscover who I am.
After being with someone you loved for 5 years there are certain expectations you have from that person and relationship. I was so happy to just love. I completely lost myself and overlooked massive red flags in him. The reality was he never loved me, he hid our relationship to keep himself open to other women, in general had zero respect for me and my time. He had zero intentions of ever giving me the relationship that I worked so hard for and deserved. Just like that, he discarded me. He didn't break up with me, he discarded me.
There are differences between Breaking Up and being Discarded. In a Breakup, even if one person initiates it, there is usually some level of care or compassion. While it’s still painful, it feels less like an attack on one’s character and more like an acknowledgment of incompatibility or unmet needs. There is a dialogue between two people and an opportunity to remedy issues or decide together to part ways. This is also something you don’t do over the phone it has to be in person. Discarding someone is emotionally abusive as it disregards the emotional investment and history of the relationship. It can be marked by coldness, lack of empathy, or even cruelty. It’s as though the person doing the discarding has emotionally “checked out” and sees their partner as disposable. This treatment can evoke feelings of abandonment, rejection, and worthlessness. My ex avoided me and refused for weeks to provide me with any dialogue for closure, leaving me trapped in a loop of confusion and deep pain. I felt abandoned, and worthless, and my depression deepened. Discarding often involves an imbalance of power, where one person decides unilaterally to end the relationship in a dismissive or abrupt way. This stripped me of my voice and agency, I was used and cast aside. He used me for a place to stay, food and having me service only his needs. During our entire relationship he never made it about me, never made me a priority because he never loved me. I can’t remember a day when he actually told me he loved me unprompted. I feel so guilty and stupid for allowing this to happen. I really let myself down for being treated this poorly by a leech.
Recognizing the difference between being discarded and a breakup is a crucial step toward healing. Being discarded isn’t just heartbreak—it’s abandonment, a sudden erasure of everything you shared. But the truth is, it says more about them—their emotional immaturity, their inability to hold space for another person—than it does about you. Still, that realization doesn’t soften the blow. I needed to escape, to outrun the grief before it swallowed me whole. So, I did the only thing that made sense—I packed my life into a van and set off down the Pacific Coast Highway, searching for solace in the ocean.
I wasn’t thinking clearly. If I had been, I probably wouldn’t have gone. Too many "what ifs," too many reasons to stay safe, stay put, and stay small. But staying wasn’t an option. Toronto felt suffocating and heavy, and I needed out—fast. I messaged my international dive friends, desperate for direction, and when one suggested LA; I latched onto the idea. Mexico was too familiar, Poland was months away, and I needed somewhere I could be on my own terms immediately. LA was vast—both a promise and a warning. There were safe places and places I had no business being in. I needed a vehicle, a roof over my head, a way to be untethered but still have a home. A fully loaded van became my lifeline. I wasn’t sure if the road would be safe, but I knew it was the only place I had a chance of finding peace.
Nature had always been my refuge, and I hoped it would be again. The ocean, the solitude, the uncertainty of it all—it pushed me out of my comfort zone. In a strange way, that made it easier. Easier to let go of old routines, easier to embrace new habits, easier to start healing. If done right, travel can be transformational; it’s a journey inward, offering a unique opportunity for transformation and self-love. Stepping away from the familiar and immersing yourself in new environments allows you to shed old patterns, confront fears, and embrace the unknown. The rhythm of the road or the quiet of nature creates space for reflection, helping you reconnect with your inner voice. As you navigate challenges and celebrate moments of awe, you build confidence and a deeper appreciation for your resilience. In this space, you learn to love yourself not for who you’re supposed to be, but for the person you are becoming—free, whole, and enough. I was never the problem. I loved unconditionally and was so happy to do so, but in the process, no one loved me, not even myself.
As I pulled onto the open road, my mind was quiet for the first time in weeks. No overthinking, no second-guessing—just the hum of the tires against the pavement and the endless stretch of highway ahead. I went towards the Golden Coast, scouting the first dive spot for the morning. When I finally parked, I swung open the back van doors, letting the salty breeze rush in, wrapping itself around me like a long-lost embrace from my mom. The scent of the ocean filled my lungs, crisp and alive, stirring something deep within me. As the sky dimmed, I set up my bed and eased into my first meditation of the trip. With each inhale, I drew in the vastness of the sea; with each exhale, I let go—of the heartbreak, the anger, the weight of being discarded. The rhythmic crash of the waves blended with my slowing heartbeat, syncing me back to something primal, something real. At that moment, I wasn’t just near the ocean—I was a part of it. And for the first time in a long time, I felt like I belonged, I felt loved.
It’s like reuniting with an old friend—myself. Finally accepting my own neglect of self-love is humbling, a quiet reckoning with the parts of me I once abandoned. I never forgive, and learning to forgive myself was the hardest lesson of all—but it was the first step toward true healing. Forgiving someone else has always felt like erasing the weight of their actions, like letting them walk away untouched while I continue to carry the scars. My pain is real, and I refuse to diminish it just to be "the bigger person." I don't forgive those who've hurt me, and I am at peace with that.
Forgiveness isn't in empty words—it’s in action. It’s in accountability, in growth, in change. My path to self-forgiveness is one paved with a commitment to becoming the person I deserve to be. It means allowing myself the space to heal, the patience to stumble without shame, and the understanding that my softness, my love, and my ability to see the good in people—even when I shouldn’t—is not a weakness. It’s a strength. And that strength is mine to reclaim.
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