When the Road Gets Quiet
Grief, delay, and learning to still embrace Uba—even through heartbreak.
Man.
My last installment was about a logistics setback—a $200 gravel mistake that turned into a lesson about patience and redirection.
Right now?
I’d give anything for a challenge that simple.
Fourteen Days
As I write this, it’s been 14 days since my best friend Trina exhaled her last breath.
She passed just one week after her 39th birthday—three weeks before mine.
And I’ve never hurt like this.
The grief is fresh.
The ache is still raw.
And I’m writing through open wounds, not healed ones.
But I’ve learned something in this process:
Writing heals me.
I’m writing this with raw, painful scars still exposed.
As someone who tends to keep the most tender parts of life private, this space—this journey—has given me permission to show up real.
That freedom matters to me.
So here I am.
Still writing.
Still embracing Uba.
This Week Was Supposed to Look Different
This week was supposed to look different.
I had planned to be on the land—living in the RV, taking my first steps into full-time off-grid life.
Instead, I’ve been surrounded by family.
Held in love.
Grieving, remembering, and honoring Trina with the people who knew her best.
And if losing her is the reality we’re living now,
then I’m grateful to have spent this time right where I was—
wrapped in shared memory and connection.
What Now?
What does this mean for me?
It means leaning in.
Into family.
Into faith.
Into the quiet, knowing that even when things don’t go as planned, they are still sacred.
It means leaning deeper into the vision I have for Uba.
Trina knew what Uba meant to me.
We talked about future visits, about pulling up a chair on the porch.
We imagined growing old as best friends—laughing, cooking, sharing stories in the Arizona sun.
And even though it won’t happen in the way we dreamed,
her spirit is already there.
It’s stitched into the land now, through memory and intention.
So now I build not just for me—but for the version of us we imagined.
For the healing we both believed in.
For the kind of life we always dreamed was possible, even if we didn’t always have the words for it.
What does this mean for Uba?
It means more patience.
More faith.
And an even deeper reason to build.
Because now Uba is part of her story, too.
A space of remembrance.
Of love.
Of legacy.
Funny enough, those are exactly the things I’ve needed to practice more.
The universe really doesn’t waste anything—even grief.
Uba is still waiting. Still calling.
And now, it carries part of Trina’s story too.
The Next Steps
I’ll be spending a night on the land this week—just me, the stars, and some quiet space to breathe and plan.
I’ll keep wrapping things up in the city.
I’ll spend as much time as possible with my family.
And I’ll help send Trina off in love, in joy, and in celebration of a life lived so fully.
A Life Intertwined
I met Trina in 4th grade.
She was vibrant, generous, funny, smart, fierce, nurturing, and loyal to the core.
She became my confidant. My protector. My constant.
For 30 years, we walked through life together.
She never let me forget who I was or who I could become.
And she believed in Uba—not just as a dream, but as something she was proud to see me stepping into.
Even now, I can feel her cheering me on.
And I know—somehow, some way—she’ll always be part of this land and part of this legacy.
Amanda’s Mindset Shift Tip 💡
The dream doesn’t disappear in grief—it deepens.
Let your healing become part of the building.
Let your loss become a layer of legacy.
Let love show up in the form of patience, presence, and care.
Even when the road gets quiet…
keep walking.
Your Turn
Have you ever had to keep going with a broken heart?
How did you find your footing again?
Drop a comment. Or just breathe with me.
We’re all figuring this out as we go.
Amanda, your reflection was so powerful about losing your dear friend. When I've had to move forward with a broken heart, I just focused on my very next step while leaning on my VIPs as needed. Seems like you're doing just that. Peace to you.
Grief is so, so hard. Just this morning I sat outside and sobbed myself dry. People who knew me best were gone…they were there as I grew up and older and were never judgmental. They knew what my favorite food was to who broke my heart. You can only lean on certain people for memories. Amanda my heart has felt as you do. Grief in my instance never leaves,and it’s okay to miss them till it hurts. She knew how much you loved her…I’m proud of you. And you don’t always have to stay strong…it’s ok to give in…in regards to myself I’m tired of being strong…I’m always thinking about you.