Time to Say Goodbye

Daily miles: 26.7 miles | Total miles: 12,243.81

I got up this morning very aware. There was a quiet knowing in my body: this was it. The last time I would have the luxury of my morning routine in the van. Cold coffee, the familiar rhythm, and by 6am I was already outside, moving. I wanted to make good progress so that my sister and I could meet later at the place where I had booked a hotel room—to set up the buggy, unload my things, and begin the next chapter properly.

We had already sorted and organized our belongings as best as possible the day before, negotiating space, priorities, necessities. So I left early, expecting a relatively sunny day according to the forecast, maybe some light rain in the afternoon. It never came.

Today I moved leisurely. No stress on the body. No stress on the mind. I’ve decided to make February my Gentle Wellbeing month—a conscious choice to take care of all the little bits that need attention. I also wanted to give myself space to process the experiences my sister and I shared over the last month. I cried quite a bit. I let the emotions come and go as they did, without pushing them away, without trying to explain them. And I felt good.

The sun in the afternoon was strong and hot. Beautiful hills rose around me, even though my path itself stayed quite flat. Tears rolled down my cheeks while my eyes remained wide open, taking everything in. Fully present. Drifting with my thoughts. Letting the fear of transition and uncertainty surface. Feeling at peace. Feeling insecure. Feeling confident. Having doubts. All of it, cycling through me again and again throughout the day. What a great journey I am on.

My sister bought me new shoes and a few other items for the road ahead. The buggy was stored in the back of the van, halfway assembled, all my things packed in a way that would make unloading easier. Around mile 17 the van showed up. I recharged my phone, we ate a bite, and made a plan. I would continue to the place I booked, while she drove up to Igoumenitsa to get her ferry tickets for later that evening.

Just as I arrived, she came back too. We unloaded everything. I assembled the buggy and brought it inside. I carried most of my stuff upstairs while she brought food from the van, which we later cooked for dinner. We sat together, revisiting memories, sharing stories, sometimes laughing, sometimes falling quiet. We were both sad today—but also deeply happy, knowing that we have such a great sister and friend in one another.

A long, hot shower. Washing my hair again. Then our last dinner together: pasta with pumpkin seed pesto. Simple and perfect. Coffee, some nuts, hugs. And then it was time to say goodbye.

My sister drove off with the van toward Igoumenitsa, onto the ferry to Italy, and from there another long drive home. The sound of the engine faded, and suddenly everything felt very still. The buggy stood assembled, waiting. No van. No buffer. Just the road ahead, and me.

Thank you—for all the effort, time, care, and good intentions you put into this trip. I appreciate it more than words can say, and I take none of it for granted.

So here I am. Stepping into this next phase gently. With care. With honesty. With everything I am.

Thanks for checking in with me.

Take care, Andrea