Heading home to the USA 🇺🇸

On leaving safety, finding emerald water, and trusting a small dog to keep me steady.

The border crossing at Lewiston wasn’t particularly big, but as I crept forward in line, it might as well have been the gates of some hidden world. Ahead of me, a handful of cars idled. Behind me, nothing but the sound of my own thoughts and Loco’s tiny snores from where he’d curled up in my lap.

I reminded myself I had nothing to hide. Nothing to fear. My paperwork was in order. My truck—less romantic than the Jeep waiting for its moment, but steady and familiar—was packed neatly with everything I I needed for the road. And yet, my chest felt tight, fingers gripping the wheel just a little harder as I neared the booth.

This wasn’t my first time at a border. Years ago, I’d been held in an interrogation room after flying back and forth before I became a U.S. citizen. They’d kept me long enough that my plane left without me. I remember sitting in tears, trying to figure out how to get home, my layover stretching into sixteen hours of fluorescent-lit limbo.

So yes, my nervous system remembered.

But I was determined to do it differently this time. Deep breaths. Internal dialogue. You’re okay. You’re safe. You’re allowed to be here.

When I reached the booth, the agent was young, his mirrored sunglasses catching a flash of blue sky. He asked a few questions—Was the truck mine? Where was I headed?—the kinds of odd inquiries that always make you second-guess your truth. I answered calmly, smiled. He glanced at Loco, handed me back my passport, and waved me forward.

The sigh that escaped my chest felt like it had been held for years.

I was in.

And for the first time in a long time, I felt proud—not just relieved. Proud that I’d done all of this solo. Proud that I hadn’t taken the shortest path home.

Driving into New York felt familiar. Ontario didn’t look much different—rolling greens, small towns, a summer sun hung high over the highway. I’d crossed into Buffalo plenty of times before. But as I followed signs for Niagara Falls, the landscape shifted.

I hadn’t expected the gorge—the way the water carved emerald paths through rock, a color too vivid to be real. At Niagara Falls State Park, I kept it simple: a free walking tour, Loco still tucked in my arms like a living passport. No pets allowed on or in anything there, but that was fine. We found beauty on the edges, in quiet spaces most visitors hurried past.

Later, we stopped at Devil’s Hole State Park and Whirlpool State Park. Both felt grander than I imagined—wild spaces where water swirled and churned, where standing on the overlook made my stomach flip with a mixture of awe and smallness.

Somewhere between parks, I felt the tug of home. Not because I wanted to go back to Canada—but because home truly was south, toward Texan warmth, security, and familiarity. After almost two weeks on the road, the shortest route home was tempting.

But the trip wasn’t just a commute. It was a journey—to see the country, chase waterfalls, and, more than anything, find me.

Heading straight back would’ve been easy. Comfortable. Predictable.

But I didn’t want easy.

This was an incredible opportunity to slow down and see things clearly—to test what I was made of when I wasn’t cushioning myself with familiarity.

So I shifted Loco in my lap, one hand resting on his tiny frame, and kept driving.

Up next → Pennsylvania awaits: rolling countrysides, deep bridges, the thoughts that start rising when the land quiets down even more…