People often say "I can't imagine what you are going through" when talking to someone going through a tragedy they themselves have not experienced. After my second miscarriage, which more people in my life knew about than my first, I hated when people would say "I can't imagine..." to me. Those words made me feel more isolated than before. I would not feel comfort from the person uttering those words - I felt even more distant from them, like they were looking down at me in the dark hole I was in, calling down to me, and thinking to themselves "oh it's so sad that she is down there". Those words represent sympathy, not empathy. I'd think to myself "TRY! Try to imagine how you would feel if this happened to you. Try to imagine instead of feeling your baby's kicks, their heart stopped beating. Try to imagine instead of meeting your baby after birth, you go through their due date with the pain and sorrow of knowing that your child died before you could ever meet her." I wished people would TRY to imagine. I wanted them to climb down into the hole with me.

While I may never fully comprehend what R was going through, I could certainly imagine. And I did. For hours, driving through the winding mountain roads, I imagined receiving a call from an unknown number with that shocking, devastating news. My heart ached as I imagined going through the motions to plan a funeral for the man you love and thought you'd be growing old with.  I imagined not knowing how you can keep breathing, wondering how the world is still spinning for everyone else when it has stopped for you. I imagined replaying every fight and feeling of leaving the relationship, that would make me feel guilty for not trying harder to make every day a happy one. I cried, sobbing, wishing so badly our whole tribe could be there by her side, down in the hole she suddenly found herself in, holding her hand.

It was a beautiful, sunny afternoon driving through mountains and fall colors, blurred by tears. When I arrived in Leadville at my Airbnb, I texted Ben and told him something I knew now to be true. If we never become parents and live our lives childfree, it would be okay, we would be okay, as long as we had each other. I was overwhelmed with what I do have - a living, healthy partner, and a strong relationship with him, with the majority of our days being happy ones. More than ever before, I was so grateful for this one life I have to live.

The next morning, a day and a half after being pulled over in New Mexico, I picked up a new bulb to replace my burnt-out headlamp. When I asked the staff person if they knew how to replace it, they stared at me blankly and suggested I try the auto shop down the street. I wasn't about to pay someone to replace a headlamp, so I started driving, hoping I could figure it out myself at some point that day.

I only had a few hours in Rocky Mountain National Park, as I would be visiting another friend, P, a couple hours east of Denver for dinner. I chose a short hike at Bear Lake. Driving through the mountains was unbelievably beautiful. I had just missed peak fall color, seeing only a few trees with brilliant yellows and golds still on their branches. The air was chilly and the sun bright - it was a perfect day for hiking. I drove past a field with cars parked on the side of the road, a few people with large camera lenses shooting something in the field. I parked near the trailhead, packed my lunch, and headed onto the trail. A few yards into my hike, I discovered what they had been photographing. Off in the distance, a herd of elk was walking slowly across the field towards the shelter of the trees lining the valley. A bull with enormous antlers and a furry chest led the way, followed by perhaps a dozen cows and their calves. A few smaller males brought up the rear, protecting the future of their herd from potential predators. The few humans who were nearby fell silent and watched, paying respect to the regal procession before us.

This hike was marked as 2.3 miles on the paper map I received from the park ranger when entering the park, but with the altitude making light exercise more difficult than usual, after a mile or so I decided to sit on a boulder in the shade, have my lunch, write in my journal, meditate, and be still for a while. The setting was perfect for a calming, contemplative pause, fall colors, the mountains rising on all sides around me, and quiet. 

On my way out of the park, I stopped at the visitor's center to attempt to put in the new headlamp. I pulled out the owner's manual, which turned out to be about as useful as IKEA assembly instructions, popped the hood, and after some poking around, I found it, but had no idea how to remove the faulty bulb. I tugged and twisted. It wouldn't budge. Frustrated, I texted Ben "how do you remove the headlamp from my car?", hoping that he'd see my text during the work day. He did, and responded that it had been a while since he had done this, but he thought there was something on the side you had to squeeze before you could pull out the bulb. I squeezed everything I thought might be the thing he was talking about. Nothing.

I texted P, the friend I was meeting later that evening, to tell her I was struggling with the stupid headlamp, and she suggested her husband could help me out when I arrived. Surely a headlamp for a Subaru couldn't be that complicated compared to the headlamps he replaced regularly on his tractor or pickup. I accepted this solution and hit the road, as it would take a few hours to reach their farm from the park. 

Driving out of the mountains, I wished I had more time to spend in them. But I was tired, and emotionally drained with the continuous cycle of what ifs going through my head, imagining the grief and shock R was likely feeling. The mountains became smaller and smaller as I drove farther away, closer to my next destination and closer to home. 

I made it to P's farmhouse, squarely in the plains biome of the state. I beat her home, so I drove around a bit, past what I assumed to be their fields, past a mound covered in tires, and past a few buildings with metal siding that looked like a large pole barn that had been expanded many times over the years. I remembered the headlamp and thought I may as well try again to replace it. 

I pulled over and popped the hood, struggling again to find whatever it was I was supposed to squeeze. Suddenly a piece of plastic gave way and I could pull out the burnt-out bulb. I cheered and jumped up and down, a lone joyful figure on a side road in the planes of Colorado. I had figured it out! I did it all by myself! Grinning broadly, I pulled the new lamp out of the packaging, careful not to touch the glass as Ben had warned me this would be a surefire way to have another burnt out bulb in no time, and delicately maneuvered it until it locked into place. I was so proud of myself, and felt a surge of energy reinvigorating me as I drove back to P's house to wait for her to get home. 

When she arrived, she took me on a tour of their farm and town, as this was the first time I had visited their home. The fields I had driven by earlier were part of their farm, the mound covered in tires was the remnants of their corn, which had been completely hailed out a month earlier (an almost total loss, given how little crop insurance actually payed out), the building I thought looked like a pole barn was the K-12 school where she taught, and the cows I had barely noticed before were the calves they were raising for beef. One was out of the fenced area, in the field, and as we got closer she realized that it wasn't one of theirs - a neighbor's calf had gotten out. She called her husband, who called the neighbor to come fetch his calf. I loved this tour, seeing a glimpse into a life that was so different from mine, so perfect for P and her family.

We ate delicious steaks from a cow raised by their neighbor, her father-in-law, and watched the sun go down from their kitchen window, where the sharp horizon line separated ground from sky. This view was one of her favorite parts of the house, she told me. Thinking back to all of the sunsets I had seen on the road, it truly was amazing to see one with nothing around to block the view, the expansive sky free to explore any and all colors as day was overtaken by night.

I stayed at a budget motel in North Butte, NE that night, and the next day was the longest, most uneventful drive through Nebraska and Iowa. I had initially planned on meeting another friend, W, for dinner in Des Moines, and then continuing home to Minnesota, but with the news of R's husband's death, we made a change of plans. I told Ben I would be getting home a day late, and continued on to the Quad Cities area in Iowa where W lived, binge listening to podcasts for the first time in the entire three week trip. We drove another hour into Illinois where we attended the visitation that night, and I couldn't think of a better way to spend the last night of my trip, showing up to support a friend who was going through the unthinkable. 

The last night of my vision quest, I saw two more members of my tribe and spent the night in W's guest bedroom in Iowa, a home that was filled with dogs, a blended family, a beautiful baby born because of the magic of IVF, and so much love. When I left the next morning to drive home, my heart felt full. This vision quest was never about the destination. It was a lesson in mindfulness, teaching me that living in the present moment is the true goal, that it's the journey that matters. As I drove, the question posted by Mary Oliver came to mind. What will I do? Perhaps it isn't about what I will do, but how I will do it. My one wild and precious life will be lived, fully, in the here and now.