The Last Time I Was Here, I Couldn’t See Straight

Nine years ago, I was working on the movie, Where’d You Go, Bernadette, with Cate Blanchett. After about six weeks on the job, I quit.

It had only been about six months since my husband died, and I couldn’t function. I couldn’t concentrate. Everything felt disjointed, like I was trying to exist inside a life that no longer made sense.

So I did the only thing I could think to do.

I decided I needed to see something bigger than what was happening to me. I had two states left on my list that I had not seen: Alaska and Oregon.

I called a friend in Chicago and said, " Let’s go to Portland. I had this idea in my head that the big redwoods were there—or at least close enough. I didn’t fact-check it. I didn’t overthink it. I just knew I needed to get out of the environment I was in because if I didn’t check out of Pittsburgh, I was going to have to check in somewhere.

I went into work, quit, they replaced me, and a few weeks later, I was on a plane.

To be honest, I barely remember that trip.

Grief does that. It erases edges. It blurs time. It takes entire experiences and reduces them to fragments you can’t quite piece back together.

But there are a few things I do remember.

I remember walking through Portland and stumbling across a wishing tree.

If you’ve never seen one, it’s exactly what it sounds like—people write wishes on small pieces of paper and tie them to the branches. It’s actually a piece created by Yoko Ono. I had seen one years earlier in Cleveland, but somehow, without planning it, I found one again here.

So I wrote a wish and tied it to the tree.

I don’t remember what I wrote.
I just remember needing to believe something could be different.

After a few days in Portland, I decided my heart had not had enough. I wasn’t feeling like going home because I just couldn’t face everything. I made a decision to drive the coast of Oregon.

I walked into a car rental place, and well, what I wanted was something easy, something quiet. What they had on the lot was a bright red Ford Mustang.

It was completely impractical for where I wanted to go—and completely perfect for where I was mentally. I drove it anyway. Loud, fast, slightly reckless. I went up to Mount Hood, drove wherever I felt like, and somewhere along the way, I saw a friend I hadn’t seen in 17 years.

That trip didn’t fix anything. But it did something else. It gave me just enough space to breathe inside something that felt bigger than my own life.

Two weeks ago, I landed back in Oregon.

I went to visit that same friend—nine years later. We are completely different people now.

They remember things from that time that I don’t. I remember things they don’t.

It’s like we’re both holding different versions of the same story. Life is so weird like that.

On day two, we hopped in the car and took a long drive. I saw the Pacific Ocean for the first time in two years. I didn’t realize it had been that long. But honestly, I don’t think anyone should go that long without seeing the ocean!

There’s something about it that resets the nervous system, the psyche, the heart. It doesn’t care what you’ve been through. It doesn’t adjust to you. It just is.

For me, it is a massive reminder of how tiny we all are. And how fleeting time is. It leaves me in awe of all living things.

Nine years ago, I came here because I couldn’t handle what was happening in my life.

This time, when I came here… and I can.

And that might be the difference.

Not that life got easier. But that I can finally stand inside it and see it more clearly.

If you’re in the middle of something right now that feels too big to hold— maybe you don’t need to fix it.

Maybe you just need to see something bigger.