Stuck in traffic after a bad day, I fell asleep in the car. Woke at dawn—parked at a tiny gas station, miles off the highway. Husband grinned: “Not lost. Rerouted.”
Coffee, backroads, sleepy towns. Breakfast at Milly’s Diner—fluffy pancakes, warm “honey” from the waitress. Shoulders unclenched.
He remembered wedding friends Tom and Rea nearby. Dropped in unannounced. Three hours of scones, stories, garden walks. They glowed—calmer, rooted. “Come back anytime,” Rea said.
That sparked it. We started “getting lost” on purpose. No plans, just open roads, grilled cheese, old bookstores, 50th-anniversary love letters.
We volunteered: painting fences, soup kitchens, beach cleanups. Arguments faded. Laughter grew. Friends noticed.
One coastal town: found a scared 12-year-old on a bench. “Can’t find Mom.” We stayed. Mom arrived, frantic. Tearful reunion.
Months later, back in that town—Mom stopped us. Husband had died weeks before. “Losing her too would’ve broken me. You saved us.” She handed an envelope: her new grief-support nonprofit, inspired by our blog.
We never planned the blog. One post snowballed—interviews, book deal. But we kept going for the ripples.
A nap in traffic. A wrong turn. A stranger’s smile. Small choices, big waves.
Now we speak at schools, share stories, take the long way home.
**Lesson:** Detours aren’t delays—they’re the path. Pause. Reroute. Show up. Kindness writes the real story.
