When I would tell people I was going to take a three week road trip without my husband, the most common response (whether said out loud or implied by body language and facial expressions) was, "Why?" The introverts, after I explained my intended path from the Twin Cities to Los Angeles and back, showed excitement and a little jealousy. "Time on the road, with nothing but the changing landscapes of the West to keep you company? That sounds amazing!" The extroverts, on the other hand, looked terrified at the prospect of so much silence and solitude.

I was ready for solitude. Needed solitude. 2016 began at one of the most difficult times of my life. In January, I had my second miscarriage in two years. The morning of the photo shoot we had set up to honor our 10th wedding anniversary, we learned that our baby no longer had a heartbeat. We had seen that flicker, heard the beautiful sound of a heartbeat three weeks prior. Our joy and relief - surely this time we would take home a child! - was quickly swept away by the sound of silence at this appointment the week after Christmas. The loss was crushing, traumatic both emotionally and physically. Grief and depression followed, which only deepened when I received an infertility diagnosis a few months later that gave us a very small chance of ever having our own biological children, with or without the expensive, invasive treatment that our doctor had suggested trying. I was drowning in sorrow and grief.

Life is meant to be lived, not passed through in a fog. I was living in a fog that completely obscured any sunny skies that might be above. I wanted those sunny skies. My husband, Ben, tried to help me, suggesting that no matter the outcome, whether we had biological children, grew our family in another way, or decided to remain child free not-by-choice, we would be okay. I wanted to be able to share that perspective. How could I get from here to there? From the fog to sunny skies?

A vision quest, in some Native American tribes, is a journey, a rite of passage, a turning point in someone's life. The quest is undertaken alone at a sacred place in nature, intended to uncover a spiritual or personal truth, giving clarity to your life's purpose. This three-week road trip to a conference in LA and back, became my vision quest. I hoped the solitude, the time on the road and in nature, could give me the clarity I so craved. What should we be doing, continuing to try to have biological children, saving up for an attempt at IVF or for adoption, or embracing life as a twosome and accept the cards we have been dealt?

Taking advantage of the annual Greenbuild conference that I would be attending in LA in early October, the idea for this journey sprouted and I began to plan. Having grown up in Massachusetts, with frequent trips to Minnesota and family vacations along the East Coast, I felt the absence of experiences I had never had further West. I had been hoping for an opportunity for a road trip out West for years - this would be my opportunity.

The fog began to dissipate as I planned my itinerary, booked campsites, established a budget, and made plans to stay and visit with friends and family. I found myself smiling again, getting re-engaged at work, and looking forward to something. Moments of grief would find me less frequently, and I could recover more quickly from their darkness. I wasn't entirely sure what would come out of this vision quest, but I was already seeing its magic at work. Something amazing was happening, even before I left. I was beginning to find myself again, find joy in the world again. For the first time in months I could see a glimpse of the sunny skies through the fog. I was beginning to heal.