The Long Way Through

I didn’t go to Sturgis for the rally.
I went because someone told me he was going to propose to me there.
That was the rumor.
That was the hook.
That was the reason I packed my bag and left my three babies for eleven long days.
And if I’m honest, I went a little afraid.
Afraid I’d be a fish out of water.
Afraid I was too mild for a place known for noise.
Afraid that 1,000 miles away from home, I might feel small in all the wrong ways.
The idea of the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally felt louder than my nervous system prefers.
And I was right.
The party scenes weren’t my rhythm.

The late nights didn’t fit like my life back home does. I won’t pretend I’ve missed the rally itself.
And he didn’t propose there after all.
No dramatic overlook.
No ring pulled from a saddlebag.
No crowd cheering in the background.
Just miles. And wind. And us.
At the time, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little confused. A little let down. When you think a moment is coming, you brace yourself for it. You dress your expectations in white and wait.
But meaning rarely arrives on cue.
Wind Therapy-
Some people call it riding.
Some call it escape.
They call it wind therapy.
We rode through Needles Highway, where the road twists like it’s telling a secret. Through Spearfish Canyon, where the cliffs rise up like cathedral walls. We wandered into Deadwood, layered in grit and history, and stood before Mount Rushmore, quiet beneath stone faces that have watched generations come and go.
We stretched the miles through Custer State Park, open and wild and humbling.
We rode out to Devils Tower, rising out of the earth like something ancient and unbothered by time. And we made our way to Casper, where the sky felt impossibly wide and the road kept unfolding ahead of us like an invitation.
And somewhere between gripping his waist and leaning into a curve, I understood something I hadn’t expected to.
There is something holy about seeing lines of motorcycles roll down a highway as far as you can see — engines rumbling in unison, strangers bound together by motion. It isn’t about rebellion the way the movies tell it. It’s about freedom. It’s about being fully awake in your own skin.
Dirt in my hair.
Sun on my shoulders.
My arms wrapped tight around the man who would — eventually — ask me to marry him.
For long stretches of highway, there was nothing behind us and nothing ahead of us. Just the hum of the engine and the wind pressing against us like proof that we were alive.
That’s the part I go back to.
Not the rally.
Not the missed proposal.
The ride.
Meaning Doesn’t Always Look Like You Thought

It was hard to be away from my babies. Eleven days is a long time when you measure your life in bedtime kisses and sticky hands. I carried that ache with me down every road.
But here’s what that trip gave me:
It showed me that I can be both mild and brave.
That I don’t have to belong everywhere to receive something from a place.
That sometimes the “big moment” isn’t the point at all.
He didn’t propose in Sturgis.
But somewhere between the curves of the highway, the shadow of Devils Tower, the granite faces of Mount Rushmore, and the endless Wyoming sky, we grew closer. We chose each other without spectacle. Without applause. Without needing a backdrop to make it official.
The richest parts of that trip weren’t on any schedule. They weren’t the kind of things you post to prove you were there.
They were in the spaces between towns. In the way he reached back and squeezed my knee at a stoplight. In the way the world felt wide and simple for a moment.
Meaning, not miles.
Sometimes the long way doesn’t give you the story you expected.
It gives you the one you actually needed.
And even now, when my mind drifts back to those summer days, I can almost hear the engine rev.
And I remember — the proposal wasn’t the point.
The becoming was.