How Travel Saved Me: Reclaiming My Life After Abuse

Where we left off:
I had moved out of state to protect my family. I gave up everything and everyone I knew to keep them safe. We landed in Washington, and that’s where things got worse—so much worse.

I was completely isolated. No friends. No family. No freedom. He, on the other hand, had people here—his mother, a girlfriend, a job. And I had nothing. He didn’t want me to work, and I fell into one of the darkest depressions of my life.

I missed weddings. I missed family. I missed myself.

The abuse got worse. I was dragged down hallways. Locked out of the house in the cold. Accused of having affairs with neighbors, teachers, even teenage missionaries. I was constantly on edge, always bracing for the next attack—emotional, physical, or psychological.

And I wanted to die.

But one day, my little sister Jamie invited me and the boys to hike in Moab. It was spring break. He surprisingly said yes—told me I was too stupid to survive anyway. I packed up the kids and drove 16 hours to Utah.

And something changed.

As I hiked through Arches National Park, I was flooded with panic attacks. But I kept going. My boys were laughing. Jamie was by my side. And when I turned a corner and saw Delicate Arch, I realized—I didn’t die. I did it. I planned a trip. I brought the kids. And I felt… free.

That trip cracked something open in me. I started questioning everything he ever said. I started realizing I wasn’t weak. I wasn’t stupid. I wasn’t crazy.

I came back and took back my power—little by little. I got my dental hygiene license transferred and went back to work. He tried everything to sabotage me: reported me to licensing boards, accused me of things I never did. But I kept going.

Eventually, I filed for divorce again—this time in Washington. He threatened my life, stalked me, drained our accounts, and made every moment hell. But I was done. I had seen another version of life. And I refused to let my sons grow up thinking abuse was normal.

He fought dirty—court battles, custody threats, lies, manipulation. I lost everything except my will to survive. And in the hardest moments, when everyone else doubted me, I turned inward and just kept moving forward.

And then, I started traveling.

I saved up. Worked six days a week. Took the boys on a cruise to four countries in five days. We laughed. We reconnected. No one yelled. No one cried. It was peaceful. It was healing.

Trip by trip, I rebuilt myself. I became the woman he said I could never be. I got certified as a travel advisor. I started helping others plan their dream getaways. And I started blogging about my own.

Travel became my therapy. It was the one place I could go where no one knew the “old” me. I wasn’t “the abused wife.” I was just a woman enjoying pasta in Rome or horseback riding through the Arizona desert or mining crystals in Arkansas.

My boys are grown now. They call just to talk. They are kind, empathetic men. And I know, with full certainty, that none of that came from him. It came from me.

Today, I run women’s trips so other women can feel what I felt on that first Moab hike—freedom, confidence, connection. I show them that they are not alone. That life can be full again. That it’s never too late to rediscover who you are.

Because here’s the truth:
You don’t have to hit rock bottom to need something more.
You just have to want it.

And when you do, I’ll be here—ready to go with you.