The Day I Drove Away

I was eighteen when I left without telling anyone.

No dramatic goodbye.
No announcement.
No permission.

Just a packed car.

I put my turtle in a container with air holes punched carefully through the lid. My cat rode in a carrier on the passenger seat. A duffel bag in the back. A small stack of clothes. A few things that felt like mine.

And I drove.

Back to Alabama.
Back to my dad.

People like to talk about rebellion like it’s loud.

Mine was quiet.

It wasn’t anger that filled the car that day. It was something steadier.

I was tired of being rearranged.

Tired of new hallways.
Tired of navigating rooms that had already decided who I was.
Tired of trying to exist in spaces that never felt anchored.

So I anchored myself.

At eighteen, that feels brave and terrifying at the same time.

You don’t know if you’re being strong or reckless.

You just know you can’t stay.

There’s something about driving alone on a highway for the first time that makes you aware of your own gravity. The road stretches out like a question.

Who are you when no one is telling you who to be?

The answer, for me, was simple.

I was a girl who loved the outdoors.
A girl who loved her dad.
A girl who brought her turtle and her cat because leaving them behind felt wrong.

I didn’t have a five-year plan.

I had instinct.

And instinct said: go.

Looking back, that drive was the first time I trusted my own internal compass more than anyone else’s opinion.

Not because I was fearless.

But because I was done shrinking.

Six months later, my dad got transferred to Connecticut.

Life rearranged itself again.

But that’s not what matters.

What matters is this:

I proved to myself that I could move because I chose to — not because someone else decided for me.

At eighteen, that felt like freedom.

Even if it was temporary.