This Is Who I Am (Book Part 33)

Prior

I follow behind Kent in my car, careful to keep my distance as we wind through the hills of this majestic terrain. The layered reds, browns, and creams remind me of the inside of a fancy cake. I reach for my camera to capture the view, but the motion blurs everything.

Eventually, a gravel turnoff leads to an asphalt parking lot, and I pull in beside him. We step out and scan the area. He stretches—bends to touch his toes, then lifts one ankle behind him, holding the pose before switching legs.

“How far do you plan on running?” I ask, hoping I might join him.

Kent points toward a nearby sign. “That’s the Castle Loop Trailhead—it’s a ten-and-a-half-mile loop.”

“Oh,” I say, a little surprised—and disappointed. “I didn’t realize it was that long. Are there shorter trails?”

“Yeah,” he says, gesturing off to the side. “There are a few just over there.”

I try to hide my deflation, though it’s clear we’re parting ways. “Okay. I’ll probably check out one of those.”

Before he takes off, I ask if he’ll snap a quick photo. I hand him my phone and run to a spot in front of a large, craggy hill. Clasping my hands in a namaste pose, I call out, “Ready!” He takes the picture, hands me the phone, says goodbye, and starts running in the opposite direction.

As I watch him go, a strange mix of sadness, relief, and freedom washes over me.

I jog a short stretch of trail—more to appear occupied than anything—then decide I’m ready to move on. Back in the car, I slide in a Deepak Chopra CD and ease onto the gravel road leading out of the park.

At the sight of a herd of antelope, I pull over, grab my phone, and hit record. Later, watching the playback, I see their movement shift from a calm trot to a sudden, fluid gallop. In the background, Deepak’s voice speaks:

“Awareness isn’t passive. It leads directly to action—or inaction. The way that you perceive the problem will inevitably blend with how you try to solve the problem. We’ve all been in groups asked to accomplish a task, and when the discussion begins, each participant displays aspects of their awareness. Someone seizes the floor, demanding attention. Someone else hangs back in silence. Certain voices are cautious and pessimistic, while other voices are the opposite…”

As the antelope vanish into the distance, I replay the clip. Their movement is seamless—a choreography of instinct and awareness. And I wonder: Am I really choosing where I go next, or am I just riding some forward-moving conveyor belt I never agreed to step on?

---

Back on the highway, with the familiar light hum of tires on pavement, I drive east on I-90. The return feels good—the day is sunny and warm, and possibility seems to wait around any bend. A little ways into the drive, I notice the bulging tomato on the passenger seat, pick it up, and eat it whole. After a gas stop in Reliance, South Dakota, I head north on I-47. When I see the vivid yellow rows of sunflowers standing stiff and bright like soldiers, I pull over, throw together a sandwich from the cooler, and unroll the green yoga mat to sit with the view.

Cars pass. I feel mildly awkward under their likely curiosity, but I need this moment—badly. A pause, a breath. Then I’m back in the car, moving again. North one minute, east the next, with no real care for where I’m headed. After about three hours, and the clock creeping toward 3:00 p.m., I know I should start looking for somewhere to sleep.

I veer briefly up I-45 to Lake Louise Recreation Park and get out to stretch my legs. A young couple sits in a gazebo near the water. I wave; they wave back. I consider swimming, maybe staying the night. But the idea falls flat. Within minutes, I’m back on the road.

It’s pouring rain when I pull into a rest area outside Wilmot, South Dakota. No cars. No people. Just gray sky and a sinking feeling in my stomach. I go inside to use the restroom. On the way out, I see my car, completely alone in the empty lot, and something about it hits. I take out my phone and snap a picture—proof, maybe, of how it feels inside.

I stare at my GPS, unsure of where to go next. Fargo, North Dakota, is an hour and forty minutes away. I’m done driving. But more than that, I’m done with this empty, nothing-of-a-day. So full of heaviness and conflict I don’t even have the energy to sort. I drive anyway. Toward Fargo.

There comes a point when the high wears off. When the fumes you’ve been coasting on sputter out. And all that’s left is you. Just… you. Staring back at yourself.

The brown spot from too much sun.
The droop in your left eyelid.
The weight of what you can’t change, can’t fix, can’t outrun.

You can scream. You can cry. You can stomp your feet or beg the sky to interrupt the silence. But nothing answers. Nothing moves.

There’s just the mirror.

And the truth staring back:

This is who I am.

And it’s not a comfort.
It’s not clarity.
It’s a kind of quiet horror.