This chapter isn’t about distance covered. It’s about who I covered it with.
Miles because we are in the United States of America.
I spend a week with my youngest daughter, and somehow we manage to cross borders, chase playoff games, and stitch together a stretch of time that feels both chaotic and perfect. She’s an NBA fan like me something that still surprises me in the best way, like discovering your favorite movie quoted back to you by someone you love.
We watch three playoff games in four days. Not on screens. Not in highlights. Live. Loud. Real.
It starts in Phoenix: Suns versus Timberwolves. The desert air feels electric, the crowd restless, and I’m acutely aware of how rare it is to be this present. No multitasking. No background anxiety. Just the game, the noise, and the shared rituals predicting runs, reacting in sync, knowing exactly when to look at each other because something big is about to happen.
From there, we fly to Denver. Nuggets versus Lakers. Different city, same rhythm. I realize somewhere between quarters that this this easy companionship, this shared excitement is where joy has been quietly waiting for me all along. Not in solitude. Not in grand reinvention. But in moments that feel sturdy enough to return to. The Nuggets fans are the best fans I have ever encountered in an arena ever.
We end up back in Phoenix again, then drive to Los Angeles for Clippers versus Mavericks. Three games. Three cities. Four days. It sounds exhausting written out like this, but it never feels that way. She drives every time confident, capable, laughing at my commentary like she’s been hearing it her whole life (because she has).
After all of that, we drive from L.A. to Las Vegas well, she drives, I navigate. Vegas is Vegas: too much, all at once, unapologetically loud. We spend a night there and see Awakening, a show built around spectacle, movement, and transformation. I don’t overthink the symbolism, but I feel it anyway. The word lands softly and stays with me.
Awakening.
After the U.S.A. tour, the journey folds back in on itself. We return to Vancouver, then drive to Jasper, Alberta. The scenery shifts again mountains, stillness, space. This is where I leave her for her summer job. The goodbye is gentle, affectionate, and tinged with that familiar parental ache: pride wrapped in longing, joy wrapped in letting go.
I don’t spiral this time. I don’t try to extract meaning. I just let the week be what it was joyous, loud, tender, fleeting. Proof that the best moments of my life are still unfolding, often in car rides, arenas, and shared glances when the shot goes in.
If this were a movie, this would be the chapter critics call the emotional center. The reminder of what’s worth protecting. The reason the rest of the journey matters at all.
I leave Jasper lighter than I arrived. Not because everything is resolved, but because I remember something essential: joy hasn’t left me. It just waits for the people who know how to bring it out.
And sometimes, it wears a jersey.