Hello.
If you’ve read my words before, you already know—I don’t go out often. Not in the way people mean when they talk about “getting out” as a lifestyle. I don’t float from brunch tables to crowded patios, nor do I glide through farmers’ markets with tote bags heavy with fresh basil and conversation. I have to make myself go out. Sometimes I have to bargain with myself, like a parent coaxing a child out from behind a locked bathroom door. I’ll say: It’s just for an hour. You might even enjoy it. But most of the time, the weight of silence wins.
Earlier this week, I had a plan. A road trip. Nothing grand—just the promise of motion, listening to some good Road Trip music, and visions of a horizon pulling me forward. But sickness found me first. It crept in the way it always does: slow enough to ignore at first, fast enough to take the whole day hostage. So the trip was shelved, another pin in the corkboard of things I’ll get to eventually.
But today was different. Today, I found myself behind the wheel again, heading north to Rio Rancho for a Pinning ceremony—a milestone for my friend Ralph. Not just any milestone, but the culmination of years of work that most people wouldn’t survive, let alone endure. He put in hours that stretched into the small, skeletal hours of morning when most of us are asleep and dreaming. He worked shifts that bled into each other until time stopped feeling linear—just a long, unbroken stretch of effort. Weekends vanished, holidays blurred, and what little rest he got came with the weight of what still needed to be done. He trained, studied, and pushed through exhaustion that could crush a lesser will.
And now, here he was—standing in front of a room filled with people, receiving a pin that meant he made it. That every bleary-eyed morning, every missed gathering, every hour spent grinding when others would have quit, had led to this moment.
Rio Rancho isn’t far, not really. It’s no cross-state odyssey. But somewhere between the last stretch of I-25 and the city’s wide, sun-bleached streets, I started thinking: distance isn’t the measure of a road trip. It could be the leaving. It could be the act of turning the key, of trusting the road to change you, even in ways you won’t notice until later.
The ceremony itself was a tide of voices, pressed uniforms, and the scent of starch in the air. Ralph stood at the center, that pin catching the light. Pride radiated from him—not the loud, brash kind, but the deep, quiet pride of someone who knows exactly what it cost to get here.
I thought about the bargain I made with myself: Go see your friend. Stand in that room. Then you can retreat. But standing there, I realized I’d already doubled the wager. I wasn’t just showing up for him; I was showing up for me. I was in motion again—out of the house, into the mess and warmth of other people. Two birds with one stone.
Driving back, the city falling away in my rearview, I felt lighter. Not in the euphoric way people talk about “getting out of your comfort zone.” This was quieter, less photogenic. A reminder that life doesn’t just happen in the grand gestures or the far-flung miles. Sometimes it’s in the short drives, the small rooms, the simple act of showing up for someone who has fought their way to a moment worth celebrating.
Maybe Rio Rancho counts as a road trip. Perhaps it doesn’t. But for today, it was far enough to leave myself behind for a while—and close enough to witness a friend’s hard-earned triumph, one that made the journey worth every mile.
By Kyle J. Hayes
kylehayesblog.com
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