Have you ever felt alone?
I don’t mean alone like “no one’s answering your texts” or “you’re third-wheeling at dinner.”
I mean really alone.
The kind of alone that creeps in even when you're surrounded by people. When you're at a party, or in a room full of noise and laughter, and somehow you still feel like you’re floating outside of it all. A ghost brushing past the living.
You look around at a world full of millions—billions—of people, and still feel like no one sees you. Like no one really hears what you’re trying to say. You try to explain how you feel, and the words come out hollow. People smile, nod, move on. And you’re left wondering if maybe you’re just too much. Or not enough. Or maybe just different.
And so you pull back. You shrink yourself. You go through the motions. You smile when you’re supposed to, laugh when it’s expected. And slowly, you stop showing up as yourself.
You go numb just to get by.
That kind of disconnection—I felt it full force this weekend.
But not in a crowd.
In a forest. Alone.
I was about an hour or so into Saturday's ride—third weekend in a row. My body was already feeling the pinch from the past two weekends. My hip flaring. A constant reminder it needs to be replaced. And then came this stretch of trail just outside Barrie that almost cracked me wide open.
The first path on this journey that looked ominous and disappeared into a thick forest. Not the cozy kind—the ancient, haunting, towering kind. The trees were massive and closed in tight around me, blocking nearly all the light. Just these tiny, cold slivers of sun slipping through the canopy, like little knives cutting through shadow. If it had been overcast? I swear it would’ve been pitch black in there.
And the trail itself? A wreck. It looked like a river had torn through it. Deep ruts, gnarled roots, torn earth. The kind of terrain that makes you swear out loud. Hills that didn’t end. No breaks. No breathers. I had to get off and walk most of it, dragging my bike along behind me, my hip screaming.
I was alone in that forest for almost an hour. Not another soul.
No sounds but the creak of trees and the crunch of my steps.
And just when I thought maybe—maybe—I was almost out, I came to this junction. Three paths. No signs. No idea where any of them led. Just trees, and dirt, and silence.
I looked at my phone—thinking I’d just check my GPS. But nope.
No signal.
My stomach dropped.
In a split second, the forest didn’t feel quiet anymore—it felt suffocating. The air thickened. The trees pressed in. I felt the weight of every single direction, and the fear that if I chose wrong, I’d just disappear deeper into nowhere.
I stood there frozen.
Brain racing. Heart pounding. A hundred nightmare scenarios playing out in my head. And not one of them ending well.
But here’s the thing—and it’s the part I hope someone out there really needs to hear:
You don’t need to be lost in a forest to feel that way.
Sometimes in life, we do everything “right.”
We show up. Work hard. Smile. Say the things people want to hear.
We push through the motions like machines.
And still—we feel empty. Disconnected. Drifting.
And I don’t think that’s failure.
I think it’s a sign.
A wake-up call from the universe.
Something has to shift.
Because you can’t keep living the same script and expecting your soul to thrive.
Just like those three trails in front of me—we often find ourselves standing in life, staring at options. Not sure where they lead. Terrified of picking the wrong one. But standing still? Not choosing? That’s not safe. That’s how you stay stuck.
And here’s the thing: the sun doesn’t wait.
You wait too long, and the light starts to fade. The trail disappears. And with it? So does the opportunity.
So I did the only thing I could:
I chose.
I took one of the paths—no signs, no GPS, no guarantees. Just my gut and a shaky breath. Eventually, I made it. The trees thinned. The sun hit my face again. And I was out.
Here’s the kicker though: all three paths led out.
Each one would’ve gotten me there.
The only difference was how long it took.
So it’s not about choosing the perfect path.
It’s about having the guts to choose.
So let me say this, loud and clear:
If you’re standing at a fork in your life right now, stuck in fear, waiting for some kind of magic green light to show up and give you permission?
Stop.
There’s no perfect timing. No flawless plan. No guarantee.
There’s only you—and your ability to move forward anyway.
Standing still is a choice too.
And it’s the one most likely to cost you everything.
So choose. Pick a direction. Let it be messy. Let it be bold. Let it scare the hell out of you.
Because freedom?
It’s not found in avoiding the unknown.
It’s found in walking straight through it.
This life is not a rehearsal.
This is it.
So don’t you dare stand at the fork and stay frozen.
Choose.
Own it.
Ride it like it’s yours.
And never look back.