The Last 48 Hours: Tornadoes, Mama Bears, and One Final Step Into the Atlantic

The last 48 hours have been a blur of tornado warnings, flash floods, frantic weather updates, and divine rerouting. But after nearly five months on foot, from where I began… I made it.

We made it.

There were 337 miles left between me and Myrtle Beach. Between me and the finish line. Between me and stepping into the Atlantic like the world’s most dramatic episode of Survivor: Blisters & Blessings.

But of course… it couldn’t be easy, could it?

This journey—my journey—has been part Forrest Gump, part National Geographic, part Weather Channel disaster reel. And 100% survival mode.

From California through Arizona, New Mexico, Texas, Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama, Georgia, and finally South Carolina—every single step has carried its own story.

There were scorching deserts and hailstorms that came out of nowhere.

There were highways with shoulders the width of a dental floss strip—and roads that had none at all.

There were beautiful backroads where strangers waved and wished me well… and roads where drivers came toward me so fast and so close, I’m convinced my guardian angel now has a permanent limp.

And despite the neon colors, reflective vests, blinking lights, and every effort I made to stay visible—sometimes, being careful still wasn’t enough. Because sometimes, staying alive on the road isn’t about control—it’s about grace. And maybe a little divine rerouting.

It’s been a journey of the concrete and the abstract.

The physical: blisters, sunburns, dehydration, and the occasional “Why does my hip feel like it’s negotiating a treaty with my spine?”

The emotional: heartbreak, grief, forgiveness, hope, and the raw, shaky act of rebuilding a version of myself I hadn’t met before this walk.

But in these last 48 hours—between being chased by storms and circled by grace—I made it.

With a lot of prayer, an army of mamas who weren’t afraid to scoop me up, drive me ahead of the storm, and make sure I had the chance to finish this thing on my own two feet—and unwavering love from every corner of my world—I made it to Myrtle Beach. I walked the last few miles into the Atlantic. I cried. I laughed. I thanked God. I held Gertrude. And I exhaled.

One step into the ocean. One step out of survival mode.

And suddenly, I wasn’t walking away from anything anymore—I was walking towardsomething.

This isn’t the end. This is a beginning.

The beginning of a new me.

A new perspective.

A deeper appreciation for what mental fitness really means—and how every single step, even the messy, muddy, sucky ones, carried a lesson I’ll never take for granted.

So here’s to the journey.

To the heartbreak, the healing, the hills, and the highways.

To the nights I slept in strangers’ guest rooms and the mornings I typed from porches with birds louder than my thoughts.

To Maple—my emotional support fabric.

To Gertrude—my loyal chariot, sherpa, therapist, and occasional speed bump.

To my village. My support system. My family. My love.

And to God—who clearly has better GPS than I ever will.

For now, I’m going to take a few days.

Rest my weary bones.

Reconnect with the people I love—not in survival mode, but in soul mode.

And just breathe.

I’m looking forward to being home… and resting up before the next big adventure begins.

Where will it take me? No idea yet.

But you know I’ll keep you posted.

Man… that was a long-ass walk.