My First Solo Trip

and mini writing retreat

Alright, confession time.

I am a forty-one-year-old, grown ass woman who is afraid to drive in unfamiliar places, especially the highway.

When I was learning to drive, there were a handful of times that my dad took me on the parkway surrounding Pittsburgh. It was traumatic each time. Nothing ever happened – I mean, I cried and screamed and slammed on the brakes unnecessarily, but I never caused or got into an accident.

But my anxiety still flares up BIG TIME even when I’m navigating unfamiliar residential streets, so on the highway I’m literally a deer in headlights. The multiple lanes, exit ramps and merge points popping up left and right, giant eighteen wheelers barreling by, and other drivers who seem to think that speed limits are speed suggestions render me frozen.

It doesn’t help that I’ve worked at a salvage yard for twelve years and I see what happens when vehicles collide going 80 MPH.

When my anxiety is this high, I often go into a “freeze” response, which doesn’t lead to anything good—like slamming on the brakes in sheer panic in the center lane.

from Google Images

So for my safety, and the safety of others, I typically let my husband (or friend or sister) take the wheel when traveling.

This is . . . mortifying. Frustrating. Limiting.

But my fear of something catastrophic happening is so overwhelming that sometimes I have to close my eyes and do breathing exercises when I’m the passenger on a highway.

Needless to say, I don’t drive very far on my own.

This hasn’t really limited me in many ways until the last few years when I started getting serious about writing. I’d get newsletters and see Instagram posts about writing retreats, residences, and conferences that were anywhere between an hour and eight hours from my little suburb of Pittsburgh.

So many times, I’d pull up Google maps, dissect the route between my house and the location of the event . . . and then close out of the windows, delete the emails, scroll past the post.

Because I literally could not fathom driving any long distance in unfamiliar territory by myself.

In recent years, this has really been gnawing at me. So I’ve been talking to my new therapist about trying to conquer this fear with small, bite sized steps.

I figured that if I could pick a place I’d been to or past before, that destination would be a good goal to start tackling my fear of driving and traveling solo.

For my first (EVER) solo trip, I settled on Ligonier, PA. It’s only about an hour from my house and basically a straight shot on route 30. Plus, I’ve been to nearby Idlewild Park a couple of times, and Ligonier was only a few miles further down the road.

This was reassuring, because part of my anxiety with driving in unfamiliar places comes from the notion of too many things going on at once in fast succession. Lane changes, road signs, construction, and other vehicles are already occupying my racing brain, and all of my attention is focused on keeping myself safe. So trying to keep my eyes peeled for street names or exits is practically impossible.

GPS doesn’t help. It’s just another distraction that takes my eyes off the road.

I’m glad to say that there were no major incidents on my way to Ligonier. As I neared Sunset Cottages, though, I was so intent on looking for the blue/gray buildings that I failed to notice a “left lane ends” sign. Luckily there was only one other vehicle behind me and he wasn’t tailgating. My bad.

After checking into the room, I freshened up then went in search of food. Fort Ligonier, as well as the town’s adorable town square (which locals refer to as “the diamond”) were only a couple of miles away, so I made it to Tubmill Creek Provisions without incident.

Author's Photos

After enjoying one of the best burgers I’ve ever had and buying a jar of local honey, I made my way to Ligonier Creamery where I indulged in key lime/black cherry twist on a waffle cone and watched people dodge raindrops from a freezing cold bench.

(because why would the weather cooperate whenever I decide to take some “me” time)?

I took a quick lap around the square, picking out shops and boutiques I wanted to visit the next day, then headed back to the cottage to focus on the writing retreat part of this trip.

My room was lovely – new fixtures and décor, high ceilings, soft lighting, a comfy desk and reading chair, spacious shower and fresh-smelling mini soaps and shampoos.

I spent around three hours working on various writing projects, then snuggled up in bed with my novel.

Sleep was a bit hard to come by at first. Aside from the unfamiliar sounds of the building settling and the mini fridge or heater clicking on, traffic from the nearby road was pretty loud, and my anxiety/overactive imagination hassled me for a while.

What if the door on the opposite side of the room wasn’t just a supply closet but a secret entry way for aliens or sex traffickers? What if someone was hiding under the bed? What if a truck came barreling off the highway and smashed into the building? What on earth was that occasional clicking/snapping sound?

Sleep eventually came, and though it was a bit fragmented, I woke up relatively rested. I had some time to kill before the nearby shops opened, so I got ready slowly, showering, dressing, and fighting with the mini coffee maker in between bouts of writing and reading.

When I returned to “the diamond,” I nibbled on a bagel and sipped iced chai at Abigail’s Coffeehouse, bought a novel at Second Chapter Books, browsed antiques, crystals, candles, and art at quirky shops with squeaking floors and friendly proprietors.

Before lunchtime, I was ready to head home. As nice as it was having time to myself (especially to write), I missed my husband and my dogs.

As I headed west on route 30, I realized that I no longer felt nervous or unsure. There were a couple of things that tested my resolve—a stretch of road riddled with so many unavoidable potholes that my teeth rattled, a speeding Mercedes that didn’t use turn signals, and dark skies that threatened torrential downpours—but knowing I’d made the journey the day before helped me stay calm.

Before I knew it, I was pulling into my driveway, smiling at the yellow begonias hanging from the brand-new porch pillars my husband installed and patting my janky Ford’s steering wheel to thank her for keeping me safe.

Later, I discovered that Route 30 is the third longest US highway in the country, and stretches from Atlantic City, NJ all the way to Astoria, OR.

Maybe next time I brave a solo trip, I’ll see what else Route 30 has to offer.

from Google Images