Wayfinder
The Road That Took Me Back
Sometimes the longest journey isn't about finding your way home. It's about discovering the parts of yourself that have been waiting to be found.
By Michelle Coleman I A Personal Journey of Faith & Healing
The Isolation nobody Could See
There is a kind of loneliness that doesn't require being physically alone.
You can be inside your own home, surrounded by familiar things, and still feel as though the world has grown distant. That was where my journey began.
Not on an unfamiliar highway. Not when my phone lost signal.
It began at home, where the walls felt too close and my thoughts had become too loud. Something was happening inside me that I couldn't quite explain. Isolation had been building quietly, until even the comfort of familiar surroundings could no longer settle my heart. I needed breathing room. For me, driving had always been a source of peace. There was something comforting about turning on my music, watching the scenery change, allowing the open road to quiet the noise inside my mind. I wasn't running away from life. I was trying to find moment of peace within it. So, I picked up my keys and drove.
Eight Hours Into the Unknown
At first, the road offered exactly what I had been searching for.
But hours passed.
The towns became smaller. There were fewer people, fewer familiar landmarks, and longer stretches of road. Nearly eight hours had gone by. Somewhere along the way, the journe changed.
I reached dor my phone.
No service.
No GPS.
No familiar voice telling me which way to turn. Suddenly the freedom of the open road felt frighteningly different. I didn't know where I was. And in that moment, something inside me recognized a feeling I had carried for much of my life.
I was emotionally lost before I left home. Now I was physically lost, too.
The Little Girl Who Still Remembered
Sometimes the present opens a door to a past we have spent years trying to understand. As I sat there, overwhelmed by uncertainty, memories began returning. I was five years old when I was taken unwillingly from my mother. FIVE.
An age when a child should be learning what safety, belonging, and love feel like. Instead, my world changed in ways I could not understand. I lost the closeness I once shared with my siblings. Thirty years. There are experiences a child does not have the words to explain. Yet the feelings can remain long after that child has grown into an adult. I learned how to survive before I learned hoew to feel safe. And there I was, years later, sitting on an unfamiliar road, realizing that part of me still remembered what it felt like to have no control over where life was taking me. The woman behind the steering wheel and the little girl inside her were carrying different chapters of the same story. Both had kown fear. Both had searched for safety. And both deserved tenderness.
The Night I Could Go No Further
Eventually, exhaustion caught up with me, Not just the exhaustion of driving for hours. It was the heaviness of old memories, emotions I had carried for years, and the realization that I was physically lost. I stopped the car. I had reached a point where I simply couldn't keep going. That night, I slept in the car. There was no dramatic answer. No sudden explanation for everything I had expierienced. Just a tired woman on an unfamiliar road, needing to rest. Sometimes survival isn't about taking another step. Sometimes it is having the wisdom to stop when your body and heart can carry no more. And sometimes the quietest moments reveal the truths we need most.
God had been there all along
Looking back, one thing stands above everything else.
God never left me.
Not when the isolation first began at home. Not when I reached for my keys. Not during those eight hours of driving. Not when my phone lost service and the directions disappeared. And certainly not during that long night when I fell asleep in my car. For a while, I couldn't recognize His presence through everything I was feeling. But not recognizing His presence didn't mean He wasn't there. I believe He was with me through every mile. In the quiet. In the strength to endure. In the moment I stopped to rest. And in the opportunity to look back and understand my experience through different eyes. I had been searching for peace somewhere beyond the walls of my home. But the journey was teaching me something deeper. My peace could not depend entirely on knowing where the next road would lead. Even when I didn't know where I was, God knew.
The Road That Took Me Back
I call this story WAYFINDER because I am still learning what it means to find my way. Healing isn't a straight highway. Sometimes it takes us through memories we thought we had placed behind us. Sometimes it asks us to acknowledge the little child inside who learned to survive before she ever understood why survival was necessary. And sometimes it asks us to acknowledge the little child inside who learned to survive before she ever understood why survival was neccessary. And sometimes the path forward begins with compassion for the person we once were. I cannot change what happened to that five-year-old girl. I cannot return the years that passed without my mother or ease the seperation from my siblings. But I can honor her. I can give her a voice. I can tell her story without shame. And I can remind her that she was always worthy of love, protection, and belonging. Today, I continue weaving my life together, one stitch, one story, and one prayer at a time.
Some stitches carry joy. Others carry sorrow. But every piece belongs to the journey that has shaped me.
To Anyone Who Has Ever Felt Lost
If you are reading this while carrying an invisible battle, I hope you remember something. Being strong doesn't mean you never feel afraid. Healing doesn't mean every memory stops hurting. And finding your way doesn't mean you must have every answer before taking the next step. You are allowe to rest. You are allowed to acknowledge what happened. You are allowed to believe that your story holds more than the hardest moments you have lived through. I share this journey not tom invite sympathy, but to open a door of understanding. Some of us carry childhood memories into adulthood that others cannot see. Some of us are still learning how to feel safe. Some of us are discovering that the road toward healing can be as unfamiliar as the road that first frightened us. But our stories deserve to be heard. And our voices matter
I left home searching for a little breathing room. I found myself on a road I didn't recognize. And through it all, God never left me.
The road did not erase my past. It helped me begin looking at it differently.
I am Michelle the Wayfinder.
And this is The Road That Took Me Back.
With faith, courage, and an open heart,
Pumpaloa
Survivor / Storyteller / Advocate / Woman / of Faith
One stitch. One story. One prayer at a time.
The road did not erase the past; it offered another way to see it. What would honoring your own story look like today?
Without naming people or sharing painful details, what kind of response helps you feel heard when you tell a difficult part of your story?
One stitch, one story, one prayer at a time offers a patient picture of healing. Which of those words speaks most to your current season?
This testimony asks readers for understanding rather than sympathy. What is the difference between those responses to you?
The decision to stop and rest is an important part of this story. How can we encourage rest without making someone feel they have failed?