The Soul Path Isn’t Always Paved
Wisdom from a Risky Road Trip
There’s a kind of clarity that only emerges on the road—when the noise falls away, the scenery stretches endlessly in every direction, and you’re alone with your thoughts, your vehicle, and the voice of your soul. I recently drove over 1,200 miles through some of the most desolate countryside I’ve ever seen, and while I thought I was simply getting from point A to point B, the road had much more to teach me.
My GPS chose what it claimed was the fastest route—remote highways winding through vast stretches of high desert and forested mountain ranges, many with no towns, no gas stations, and no cell signal. In retrospect, the “fastest” route came at the cost of peace of mind. I realized something important: it’s not about getting there faster. It’s about *how* you get there—who you become along the way.
Trusting the Road—and Myself
I drive a truck camper. Like a turtle, I carry my home on my back. I move slowly and deliberately. There’s more risk in this kind of travel—more weight, more wear, more vulnerability. And yet, I wouldn’t trade it for the world. This journey reminded me that when you’re living close to the elements, you also live closer to yourself. But being that close also means you must listen deeply—to your environment, your instincts, and your own limits.
On the final leg of my trip, I crossed the Nevada–Oregon border, believing I had just a couple hours left until I reached Bend. I pulled into a town, treated myself to a Starbucks, and—strangely for me—decided not to top off my gas tank. Sticker shock and the assumption that I’d find gas later led me to gamble. But about thirty miles out of town, I saw the sign: “No Gas for the Next 99 Miles.”
My stomach dropped.
I had what I thought was a bit more than half a tank. Surely I could make it, right?
The Miracle That Didn’t Look Like One
I drove on, praying for protection, asking my guides and angels to help me get to Bend. But sixty miles into that 99-mile stretch, I came to a tiny town with a closed-down gas station. There were no pumps, no options. Just a rest stop and a choice.
I could continue on and risk running out of gas in a place with no shoulder, no pullouts, and no cell service—or I could turn back to the rest stop where I had signal and call for help.
That’s what I did.
And here’s the thing: help arrived within 40 minutes. I crawled into the back of my camper, turned on the heat, got cozy, and watched an episode of Heartland while I waited. The roadside assistance driver arrived, poured gas into my tank, charged me $25, and told me I wasn’t the only RV at that rest stop needing help. Apparently, this happens often.
It wasn’t a dramatic miracle. No divine intervention magically multiplied the gas in my tank. But I was safe. Warm. Guided.
And *that* was the miracle.
Intuition Isn’t Always Loud—But It’s Always Right
This wasn’t the only moment I had to trust my intuition on the road. Another night, I parked somewhere that didn’t feel quite right. Something felt off—subtle, but clear. Instead of brushing it off, I trusted that gut feeling and found another spot. It turned out to be a beautiful, quiet rest area with other campers and a view that took my breath away. I slept deeply that night, because I felt safe.
What I’ve learned—what I continue to learn—is that intuition isn’t fear. It’s not the anxious chatter that catastrophizes every situation. It’s the steady, calm whisper that says, “This isn’t it.” Or, “Turn here instead.”
From the Road to Real Life: When to Take Risks, When to Recalculate
This journey has become a metaphor for so much more. Life, like the open road, is full of unknowns. Sometimes we take risks that stretch us in the best way. Sometimes we realize we’ve taken a path that—while exciting—may not be one we’d choose again. That’s not failure. That’s wisdom.
The road taught me to tune in more closely. To trust myself more deeply. And to remember that divine guidance often doesn’t look like divine intervention. Sometimes, it looks like common sense. Like turning back. Like making the call. Like filling up the tank, even if it costs a few extra dollars.
Stretching Without Snapping
I have a sensitive nervous system. And I know I’m not alone in that. For people like me—like many of you—it’s important not to leap into every challenge headfirst. Expansion doesn’t mean overextending. It means stretching into new experiences with care. It means checking in with yourself: Do I feel safe? Am I taking on too much too fast? Or am I expanding in a way that nourishes me?”
Risk doesn’t have to mean recklessness. It can mean being brave enough to book the trip, apply for the job, say yes to the date, or explore a new version of yourself. But let that risk be guided—not by fear, not by pressure—but by wisdom.
You’re Not Stuck—You’re Being Called Forward
If you’re feeling stagnant in your life, stuck in the same patterns or longing for something more, let this be a reminder: movement creates momentum. You don’t have to leap into a truck camper and head out into the wilderness. Your soul’s version of a road trip might be a weekend away, a creative project, a bold conversation, or an act of self-trust.
Just start. Follow the nudge. See where it leads you.
I’m at the beginning of a five-month journey, and I know there will be more lessons ahead—some joyful, some challenging, all sacred. I’ll be sharing those with you, too. Because this isn’t just about where I’m going. It’s about what I’m learning along the way.
And I hope you’ll keep walking with me—on the soul path, even when it isn’t paved.
—Kaleah LaRoche
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