Author: Chih Sang

Today, the destination is Lethbridge, Alberta. Another province. Another long stretch of road. But for the first time on this trip, I’m not just driving away from something I’m driving toward someone.

Steve.

We used to work together. He knows the work I do, not just in title but in reality the late nights, the constant urgency, the way your brain never really clocks out. He understands the kind of schedule that eats weekends and the kind of workload that slowly convinces you this level of exhaustion is normal. More importantly, he doesn’t need it explained. There’s no translation required.

That matters more than I realized.

The drive into Alberta feels subtly different. The land shifts again, the air feels sharper somehow, and I notice that I’m less braced for impact than I’ve been the past few days. I’m still tired. Still tender from yesterday. But there’s a sense of approaching something safe.

When I finally arrive in Lethbridge, there’s no big reunion moment. No dramatic catching up montage. Just familiarity. Easy conversation. The quiet relief of being around someone who knows who you were before everything became too much.

And then, somewhere between talking about work and not talking about work at all, the dam breaks.

I let it out. All of it. The overextension. The pressure. The dark thoughts I didn’t know how to name at the time. The fear that I waited too long to step away. The guilt for needing to. The exhaustion that still lives in my bones. I don’t package it neatly or soften the edges. I just release it.

Steve listens. Really listens. He doesn’t rush to fix anything. He doesn’t minimize it or turn it into a lesson. He just lets me empty what I’ve been carrying, like that’s enough. Like I’m not asking for too much by needing someone to witness it.

It’s astonishing how healing that is.

If this were a movie, this wouldn’t be a turning point scene. It would be one of those quiet mid-film conversations that critics later point to and say, that’s where everything started to change. No swelling music. No declarations. Just two people sitting in a shared understanding of what it costs to live the way we did and what it takes to admit you can’t anymore.

I spend the night there. And for the first time since I left, I sleep deeply. Not perfectly. Not dreamlessly. But without that constant sense of vigilance. My nervous system finally unclenches, just a little, in the presence of someone who gets it.

Today doesn’t bring answers. It brings something better: validation. The reminder that I didn’t imagine how hard it was. That my breaking point wasn’t weakness it was inevitability.

Sometimes the journey gives you landscapes.

Sometimes it gives you moments.

And sometimes, if you’re lucky, it gives you a witness.

Tomorrow, I’ll be back on the road.

But tonight, I let myself be held by understanding.