Why This Road Trip Meant More Than I Expected

Radiation and chemo have a way of shrinking your world. Hospital rooms. Waiting rooms. Short walks from the couch to the kitchen. Life becomes measured in appointments, dosage counts, and energy levels. The idea of a multi-day road trip from Santa Barbara to Austin would have sounded ridiculous not long ago. And yet, when my daughter asked if I would fly out and drive back with her for summer break, there was never really a question. I may have bitten off more than I could chew, but I would say yes a thousand times over.

We started in Santa Barbara. That first night, I sat in the auditorium at Aspen’s end-of-season track and field celebration and felt something I did not expect: normal. Just a dad in a chair, watching his kid be celebrated. No doctors, no tests, no machines. Just a daughter, a stage, and the subtle miracle of being present. Afterward, we grabbed what might have been the best pizza I have had since Italy years ago, and I got to spend unhurried time with Aspen and her boyfriend, Jack. It was not fancy. It was better. It was ordinary. And ordinary, when you have been through hell, feels epic.

The next morning, we headed to Carlsbad and stayed with the Simons family. Old friends. Easy conversation. The kind of people where you can land in their living room, shoes off, and pick up the thread as if no time has passed. Then it was a short hop to Solana Beach to stay with our friends, the Hesters. Aspen and I grabbed tickets to a Padres and Cardinals game on a sunny afternoon that went into extra innings, and we watched San Diego pull off a win. It is funny how a baseball game can turn into a milestone.

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Somewhere between the crack of the bat and the afternoon crowd, I realized I am not just surviving, I am participating again.

The next day started with a two mile walk on the beach. Not a race, not a workout, just a father and daughter walking beside the ocean, talking about nothing and everything. Then we pointed the car toward Scottsdale and stayed with my friend, Jim Reifeiss. We had a great dinner, swapped stories, then took turns in compression boots for our legs and hips. Only on a trip like this do you end up in a living room, laughing while hooked up to recovery gadgets, grateful that your body is capable of anything at all.

From there, the miles kept stacking up. An unforgettable lunch in Sedona with those red rocks watching over us, a pass through Flagstaff, and then dinner in Albuquerque, New Mexico. That night, we pushed on for a couple more hours so the last stretch home to Austin would be an easy eight. Somewhere in the dark highway miles, windows cracked, music playing, something deeper started to unfold.

My daughter is in college, deep into economics and psychology. I am a business coach who spends most days thinking about behavior, performance, and the future. In between gas stops and playlists, we found ourselves in conversations that lit both of us up. Why people do what they do. How markets move. How the mind works. What it means to build a meaningful life. She would share what she is learning in class. I would connect it to the leaders and businesses I coach. The car became a rolling classroom, therapy room, and strategy session all at once. More than anything, it became sacred ground for a dad and daughter who will not always have this kind of time.

Looking back, the trip was not easy on my body. The hours in the car, the irregular sleep, the accumulated fatigue, it was a lot. But it was meaningful in a way that made every ache and ounce of exhaustion worth it. Surviving cancer treatment changes your relationship with risk and regret. You start asking a different question. Instead of “Do I have the energy?” you ask, “Will I be glad I showed up?” For this trip, the answer is a resounding yes.

This road trip reminded me of something that might serve you. The next right mile in your life might feel too big, too tiring, too uncertain, and still be exactly the mile you are meant to take. You are not going to get a guarantee that it will be convenient. You are not going to get a promise that it will be comfortable. The most meaningful moments rarely arrive wrapped in comfort. It lives in the stretch, the saying yes, the sitting in the auditorium, the walks on the beach, the long drives, the ordinary moments that quietly shape your story.

So here is the invitation. Where in your life have you been playing it safe, telling yourself, “I will do that when I feel stronger, when things slow down, when it is more convenient”? Maybe it is a trip. Maybe it is a conversation. Maybe it is a project you have been carrying in your heart. This week, choose one mile and say yes to it. Do not overcomplicate it. Just pick the next right mile and take it, imperfect, tired, scared, grateful. And if you want help getting clear on what that mile is or how to take it with intention, hit reply, send a message, or share your next right mile with me. Sometimes all we need is someone to witness the commitment.