02/03/2024
The first time I got on an airplane, I was 16 years old.
I didn’t grow up going on lavish vacations or summering in the country. My parents were public school educators who bought a pop-up camper and carted our family of 5 all around the US to every national park and KOA campground we could find every summer of my childhood.
I played with model horses in the woods, made up games with my siblings and ate s’mores by the fire at night.
We walked with flashlights in the middle of the night to piblic bathrooms, I shared a bed with my sister and we looked for restaurants where kids could eat free.
While it may sound like idyllic simpler times, it was anything but for me. I was stricken with anxiety the whole time. The thought of having to leave my house, or my neighborhood let alone my city or state would put me into a panicked state, my throat closing up, heart beating out of my chest like I was dying.
It took years for me to understand that what I suffered from had a name.
It was called agoraphobia.
The rest of the story and how I got from there to here is for another day, but in every post, story, piece of advice, travel tip, family photo, snapshot and smiling face is the reality that my family and our experiences were born out of that little girl who grew up terrified to leave her house.
Thank you for being a part of this beautiful community and for following my family’s adventures. Being able to share this all with you makes the reality that I’ve overcome what seemed insurmountable, that much more real.
Thank you for being here 🖤
