The Long Way Through

I usually write about places.

Cities that surprised me.

Roads that stretched longer than expected.

Tables where strangers became friends.

But before I ever took the long way through a country, I took the long way through childhood. And that road was lit by my Uncle David.

Home wasn’t always joy. My parents’ marriage was tumultuous, and sometimes the air felt heavy before I even understood why. But he showed up like sunlight cutting through a cracked curtain.

If I was crying, if I was angry, if the world felt too big for my small hands, he would look at me and say:
“What about a Happy Meal, bud? Would a Happy Meal make it better?”

And somehow, it would.

Not because of the fries.

Not because of the toy.

But because someone saw me.

Someone wanted to make it better.

He found the neatest parks-the kind with chipped paint and endless possibility. He’d push me on swings like there was nowhere else he needed to be. He’d take me to Walmart and let me pick out Barbies like I was choosing treasure. And “fake” makeup (basically chalk like eyeshadow). And if I put it on like MeeMee from the Drew Carey Show, she would smile and tell me I was beautiful, and I believe with my whole heart he meant it. We colored in tandem in coloring books with full commitment. He watched cartoons like the plot really mattered.

He paid attention.

As I grew, so did the way he loved me.

When I didn’t have a kitchen table, he made sure I had one.

When I was down and out, he gave me a car.

When I needed stability, he became it.

He never made a show of generosity. He just quietly filled gaps.

The richest moments rarely make it onto itineraries.

They happen in drive-trus.

In parking lots.

In living rooms with cartoons humming in the background.

In the steady presence of someone who refuses to let you feel alone.

I stayed by his side and advocated for him when a stroke removed his ability to speak the last week of his life. I gave his eulogy. I tried to compress a lifetime of gratitude into a handful of minutes.

It wasn’t enough. It could never be enough.

So I carry him in the way I show up for people.

In the way I try to notice when someone is hurting.

In the way I believe small gestures are never small.

I even carry him in ink-a Happy Meal tattooed on my skin.

A reminder that love doesn’t have to be extravagant to be life-changing.

Sometimes it looks like fries and a toy.

Sometimes it looks like a man who consistently chooses you.

This blog is about travel for meaning, not miles.

And if I trace back the map of my life-the reason I value presence over proof, conversations over checklists, human connection over consumption-it leads back to him.

Uncle David was my first safe place.

My first example of steady love.

My sunshine.

Some people are destinations.

He was the long way through.