Day 5: Peace, Podcasts, & Prince Edward Island

I woke up around 6 a.m., feeling the early morning energy take hold. The sun was out. That was all that mattered. After days of gray and fog, I had willed the sun into existence with every hopeful thought. Today was going to be better.

My favorite podcasts played in the background. One line from a new episode stuck with me: “Make your baseline better.” A simple but powerful reminder to make your daily life fulfilling on its own. It reminded me of the idea of the eternal week: imagine, at the end of a week, being told you’ll live that same week on repeat forever. It puts things into perspective: how much I stress over the trivial, how many hours I waste scrolling in bed and how often I second guessed the remainder of this trip.

By this point, I couldn’t even remember the exact date or where I was heading next, but I knew one thing: I was going to Prince Edward Island (PEI). As I drove along the coastline, I caught a glimpse of the sunrise, and the beauty of it all hit me. I often find that the unplanned routes and the detours that lead to surprise encounters are what really make a trip successful. I passed lighthouses, including one with an ice cream stand tucked inside, and saw harbors filled with lobster pots just the way you’d imagine the East Coast.

Lost in thought, I eventually reached the bridge that would take me to a new island for the day. I stopped at Cape Jourimain to bask in the sunlight and enjoy some overnight oats that, miraculously, still tasted as good as they did on the first day. I laughed at myself when I had to dig out my sunglasses; it had only been two days, but it felt like months since I’d felt real warmth.

From there, I drove straight to Cavendish Beach in PEI National Park, where the red cliffs left me in awe. I wandered the shoreline, snapped photos, and pocketed glittering red rocks. Continuing along the northern coast, I stumbled upon small coastal villages that looked like perfect summer escapes. They were straight out of Emily Henry romance novels. I stopped at a local market in search of ice cream but left instead with a delicious spread of local charcuterie.

After hours of meandering between beaches and harbors, I arrived at Greenwich Dunes. There, I hiked a winding trail with a floating dock system stretched over a pond. At the end, I perched on a sand dune, gazing out at the endless ocean and miles of shore, dotted with grasses and tiny flowers. The moment felt indescribable, almost overwhelming. I had a little Alexander Supertramp moment, raising my arms to the sky and singing into the wind as I bounced back toward the car, practically skipping with joy.

Later that evening, I found a last-minute campsite just 15 minutes away. To my delight, it was another red cliff beach with not a soul in sight. The sun was still glowing low in the sky, so I took time to explore. I even did a quick yoga session wrapped in every layer I had accessible: a hat, gloves, two pairs of pants, and four tops. But the chill didn’t touch my spirit.

And the best part? No service. No Wi-Fi. I was officially off-grid, and it felt like the greatest luxury.

I spent the night journaling about the day and reading by headlamp. As I curled into my tiny bed, a big smile crept across my face.

Day 5 taught me that maybe manifestation really does work.

Day 6: Blizzards, Breakdown, & a Bed at Last

Despite the magic of the day before, I had the worst sleep of my trip so far. I woke up groggy and restless, but I knew I had to keep moving. It was time to say goodbye to the Atlantic Ocean. I wasn’t sure when I’d see her again. I packed up, took a deep breath, and hit the road.

As I approached the toll booth leaving Prince Edward Island, I didn’t bother to read the signs. The man inside told me the cost, and I nearly choked. Fifty dollars? Just to leave the island? I hoped I had misheard him, but the notification on my phone confirmed it: the price of a tank of gas just to cross a bridge.

I had a long day of driving ahead, so I settled in and let my mind wander. It didn’t take long for me to start replaying old relationships and conversations, sifting through tangled memories and questions. I quickly tried to redirect myself, shifting my worry toward career plans instead which was a little bit safer of a spot for my mind to land.

I thought about unread emails piling up, the website I still hadn’t started, the looming checklist before graduate school began. But even with all that noise, a quiet gratitude sat beside me. I was alone, yes, but I was choosing to be. I was learning what it meant to be fully present with myself. I thought of something I’d heard once: don’t waste a good crisis. It stayed with me. I didn’t want to miss this moment in time: the wild, beautiful, confusing in-between.

Eventually, when my brain started to fry, I turned to podcasts for company once again. But after hours on the road, I grew restless. I turned the podcast off and started speaking out loud, pretending I was the one being interviewed. I shared stories about my childhood, college years, career dreams, and this strange, unfolding adventure. It was weird, maybe, but it kept me awake.

Then came the snow.

Not just a light flurry, but a full-on blizzard on a remote New Brunswick road. White-knuckled and weary, I pushed on toward Matane, where I planned to stay overnight before catching a ferry across the Saint Lawrence the next day. By the time I arrived, the scenery felt like background noise. I was numb to the beauty, too tired to take it in.

Matane wasn’t particularly welcoming. With few camping options, I ended up in a brightly lit parking lot, snow swirling all around. I didn’t want to dig through the trunk for extra layers, so I settled into the front seat and watched reruns of Netflix’s Love is Blind, munching on snack mix until I felt sick.

When the boredom turned into unease, I did what I always do: I called my parents. I rambled about the terrain, the snowstorm, my growing doubts about staying the night in the parking lot. My dad suggested that maybe I deserved a stay in a nearby hotel. I resisted. I didn’t want to cheat this trip. But then he asked me something I wasn’t ready to answer: “Who are you trying to prove this to?”

I didn’t know. I stumbled through a response, trying to justify the discomfort. After we hung up, I cried. The kind of crying that sneaks up and spills over. Just yesterday I had been singing into the sun. Now I was shivering in a snowy lot, feeling small and tired and unsure.

Eventually, I gave in. I drove to the hotel my dad had found, booked a room, and exhaled. The relief was instant. I took the longest, hottest shower of my life, slipped into a fluffy robe, and laid out my damp clothes to dry. I collapsed onto a king-sized bed, grinning.

The rest of the night was soft and slow. I watched Survivor in French, did a full skincare routine, and mapped out the rest of my trip. For the first time in a while, I felt calm. A part of me worried that I’d broken the “tough girl” narrative I’d worked so hard to maintain. But then I realized that it was never about the story. It was about me. And I had to be okay with that.

Day 6 reminded me that strength doesn’t always mean pushing through. Sometimes, it means knowing when to soften.

Day 7: Fjords, Footpaths, & Fading Light

At 7 a.m., I was eager to pack up and hit the road. An hour later I was on the ferry crossing the Saint Lawrence, book in hand and eyes still heavy. The ride was a little rough but endlessly beautiful. Mountains loomed in the distance, cliffs carved their stories into the shoreline, and the glowing sunlight cast everything in silver.

When we docked, I drove straight for Tadoussac and caught another small ferry across the Saguenay Fjord. The wind whipped across the shore, stinging my cheeks and sending whitecaps dancing over the waves. The chaos of the water was oddly calming.

Somewhere along the drive, I called a few friends to let them know I was still alive and well. I spent the next several hours behind the wheel, not feeling the pull to stop anywhere along the way. I wasn’t in a rush; I was just content in motion.

Eventually, I arrived at Jacques Cartier National Park. It was completely deserted. Not a single car, no footprints in the snow, not even a ranger in sight. And I couldn’t stop smiling. The whole park felt like mine. Quiet, vast, blanketed in snow.

I bundled up, spiked up my boots, and set off on the Éperon Trail that was technically closed (shocker!). I have a bad habit of ignoring signs, probably not something I should admit, but it’s the truth. Most of the time, that little rebellious streak serves me well. But this time, it tested me.

The trail was steep and slick, covered in icy patches and deep mud. It wound 3.1 miles through the woods, and I paused often to peek between trees at the snow-dusted ridge-lines glowing orange under the setting sun. But about halfway through, it hit me: the sun was falling fast, and my phone battery was nearly dead. No flashlight. No backup.

I picked up the pace, slipping more than once. I took a few wrong turns, and I’ll admit that I panicked a little. The trail started disappearing beneath the snow and shadows. Everything looked the same. I tried to stay calm. I reminded myself: the second half of any long hike is always the hardest.

At one point, I started running. Not for speed, really, but to break the tension and to prove I could. I must’ve looked absurd: backpack flapping, camera swinging wildly from my neck, legs caked in mud. But it helped. I laughed out loud. I needed that.

Eventually, I made it back. Soaked, filthy, and absolutely elated. My fleece pants were toast, and I couldn’t have cared less. That trail, for all its chaos, was beautiful.

Back at camp, I slipped into my nighttime rhythm. Then, I climbed into the car and did the one thing that always grounds me: gazing up at the stars through the back window. Cold air pressed against the glass. Sleep came easily that night.

Day 7 highlighted the importance of always packing a headlamp, no matter how bright the day feels.

Day 8: Cabins, Cobblestone, & Crepes

The freezing temperatures that crept into my car at 5 a.m. no longer allowed for sleep to be an option. I wriggled out from under the mound of bags piled on the driver’s seat and turned the car on, only to discover it was a crisp 18°F outside. No wonder I felt frozen to the core.

I took the early morning as a chance to prepare for a full day in the city. I might’ve been a smelly camper, but I wanted to show up in the world like I wasn’t. After piecing myself together in layers, I hit the road, winding my way through the park, mesmerized by rivers curling around the bases of the mountains. I stalled a bit, not wanting to arrive in Québec City before the shops opened but also to take in my surroundings.

Breakfast was simple, devoured beside a weathered fishing cabin tucked into the hush of morning. A few birds danced along the riverbank as the trees swayed gently in the steady breeze.

When I finally arrived downtown, I was swept up in the charm of it all. The sun was shining and the cobblestone streets were alive. I tossed on a wool sweater and parked my car in a garage, only to immediately regret the outfit choice as I stepped into the springlike air. The city felt like Europe, or at least, the Europe I’d always imagined. The buildings stood proud in their colors, and the upper town sat above it all like a crown.

I wandered the Dufferin Terrace, gazed at the water, watched ships slip into port with the mountains standing tall behind them. The Promenade des Gouverneurs gave me an even better view, and from there, I spent hours getting lost in the streets of Petit Champlain. I browsed local shops, searching for the perfect small treasures to bring home: cards made by Indigenous artists, jewelry carved from moose antlers, and of course patches for my collection.

Though I didn’t speak much French beyond “bonjour” and “merci”, I let the rhythm of the city carry me. I snapped film photos, stopped for a chocolate crepe, and took in the history of the Citadelle of Québec.

But before long, it was time to press on. Ottawa was on the radar for the next pit stop and night’s stay. As I drove nearer to the Planet Fitness, where I was planning a quick reset, I quickly realized that I wouldn’t feel very secure sleeping in my car in this city. Instead, I braced myself for one final push to Algonquin Provincial Park. The sun had long set, and I drove deeper into the stillness, letting the quiet swallow me whole. It was a 3.5 hour battle with my tired eyes. When I finally put my car in park for the night, I crawled into my sleeping bag and had the best rest of the entire trip.

Day 8 taught me how a little intention in the morning can change the rhythm of everything that follows.

Day 9: Highways, Heart, & Home

I’d hoped to spend more time exploring Algonquin Provincial Park, but the skies were grey, and my heart was already leaning toward home. After a few stops along the way to cherish the misty rivers and lakes, I found myself crossing back into the U.S. over the St. Mary’s River.

Eventually I felt familiarity in the roads I was traveling and reached Straits State Park in St. Ignace, Michigan. From the park’s trails I could spot the iconic symbol of the Great Lake’s State: the Mackinac Bridge. This was a sight I’d seen dozens of times in my life, but this time it felt different. I pried my nearly full journal open and poured into the pages.

I’d driven 3,396 miles. Spent nine days alone. Faced wild winds, cold dinners, aching doubts, and stunning moments of clarity. I could’ve quit. I could’ve headed straight home on Day 3 and called it good. But I didn’t. I kept going. I chose to sit with myself through it all, through the discomfort, the quiet, the unknown.

I’ll never forget the golden joy of PEI, or the unshakable pride I felt crossing the Canadian border alone for the first time. Similarly, I’ll never forget the tears shed on the frigid shore of Matane, and the quiet misery after breaking my camping stove. Those moments live somewhere deep in me now, stitched into the fabric of who I am, just like the cheeky Québec City patch on my hiking backpack.

I closed the final pages of my journal, took a breath of solitude, and headed for my car, ready to take on the last 1.5 hours of my first solo road trip. As I neared my parents’ house, tucked against the lake, I felt that familiar rush. Home. Inside, the air was full of everything I’d missed.

Later, in the quiet of my old bedroom, I finally let the tears fall. Coming home had worried me more than I liked to admit. I feared it might feel like slipping backward, like losing all that I’d gathered. But it didn’t. It felt right. The peace of the lake. The comfort of family. The stillness that lets you reflect and really feel what the journey gave you.

This northern Michigan summer ahead would be just what I needed: slow, grounding, and rich in its own way.

Day 9 reminded me that some of the most powerful adventures are the ones that lead you home.