Just before the holiday break, I buckled Paloma’s bed into the backseat and drove eight hours to Marfa, Texas.

I’d never been that far south, but had been planning to travel to Marfa to stand in the exact spot James Dean and Elizabeth Taylor once did 70 years ago on the set of Giant. I had experienced a spiritual awakening at the beginning of November, and it felt like my ancestors were coaxing the vestiges of myself to the West Texas desert. As a Pisces and deep romantic, the idea of the trip was intoxicating and exactly what I needed after months of mostly staying indoors all day. Maybe I would reconnect with myself or find a complete version of new me or at least find some peace. I called my roadtrip playlist “Healing.”

On the way there, those little fantasies I like to gorge myself on started to fall away like the dust blowing off my hatchback. The stained surface underneath was made up of very urgent but nasty thoughts I’d been avoiding. Sitting in a car for eight hours really forces your brain to wander down every trail and stumble on every rock no matter how loudly you sing Taylor Swift.

By the time I got to Marfa, I was still game for a few days worth of exploring and writing, but the healing part seemed more elusive. I knew healing wasn’t a cure, it’s a lifelong journey. Even so, I’d set out with the idea that this unfamiliar, barren land, far away from everything I knew, would dislodge the block I could feel every time I sat down to write a new blog.

With Paloma at my side, each day followed a similar pattern to our routine back home. The only difference was that on our morning and evening walks, her poor paws were riddled with sticker burrs and I was just a little bit afraid no matter where we were walking. It was a combination of a few things:

• Unfamiliar terrain stretching for miles toward unknown, ancient mounds of dirt.
• Isolation. For the first time in a long time, I wasn’t within a walking distance of a friend’s house. It was also the slow season and the streets were empty.
• Wildlife stirring much closer than I’m used to

On several of these tense walks, Paloma would pause mid-step, her ears rolling up to the sky, her eyes steady on a clump of bushes shrouded in darkness ahead of us. My curiosity wasn’t interested enough in uncovering the source—even if it was just bunnies. I would immediately pivot back toward the Airbnb, street lights, people. While we never saw coyotes, I could hear their calls throughout the night. I half-expected to see a bristly face staring back at me through the back window of the creaky house. Just because I couldn’t see them didn’t mean they weren’t lurking around us every time we left.

The area that peaked my anxiety was the backyard of the Airbnb. Fenced in with chain link and an impressively large metal back gate, it was perfectly West Texas in the daylight—retro, shell-backed chairs, a fire pit partially buried in the limestone, and wrought iron cacti. But at night, light didn’t exist. Opening the backdoor was like standing at the entrance to a black hole. I would keep the door open as I tentatively went down the porch steps and into the depths, the warm lights from inside a beacon.

Overhead, the stars were sparkling diamonds in the velvet sky. Even amidst the rustling, dead grass, howls, and echoing wind, I could appreciate the beauty. I thought about my dad. He used to take my siblings and I to the nearby community college where they would host star parties. My favorite times were when one of the planets was out for the night, like a celebrity out to dinner in the vastness of Manhattan. He would line up the telescope just right so I could feel closer to knowing what our universe contains even though we were so far away.

There was fear then too. Space is always kind of just sitting up there, reminding us that we’re tiny, insignificant specks formulated from the same atoms. It feels both impossible and so very real—as real as the keyboard under my fingers. In a way, it’s a little comforting, isn’t it?

My spontaneous trip to Marfa didn’t completely heal me. It didn’t cure my depression or solve my problems. When I returned to Denton, I decided to allow myself to be afraid but I wouldn’t let fear stop me anymore. I could recognize it, acknowledge it, and press on.

Now here it is, almost halfway through 2024, and I’ve been able to identify just how anxious of a person I am and how fear has dictated probably every single decision I’ve made throughout my life. And even though it can still stifle, I refuse to let it extinguish.