Just Us: A 12-Hour Road Trip and the Power of Doing It Anyway

I’ve always been independent—even before kids. People call me a go-getter, fearless even, but the truth is: I’ve had plenty of fear. I’ve just always known that if I waited around for someone to help or tag along, I’d miss out. Life doesn’t pause for anyone, and I learned early that waiting often meant never.

That mindset didn’t disappear when I became a mom. If anything, it got sharper. I’ve been the diaper changer, the bedtime enforcer, the lunch packer, the one who carries the mental load—all of it. When I got divorced and moved in with my parents, I leaned into the comfort of family. I was doing it, but I was never really doing it alone.

We took beautiful vacations—Cape Cod, Martha’s Vineyard, Disney, Utah. The kids were happy, and I was grateful. But looking back, there was always one condition: I never traveled without another adult. It was almost unspoken—this idea that, as a single mom in her mid-30s (and let’s be honest, small and not exactly intimidating), I shouldn’t be traveling alone with my two kids. Too risky. Too reckless. Too much.

So when I floated the idea of driving to Ohio to visit my cousin and her family, it wasn’t just about the logistics. It became a family discussion, a negotiation. Would my parents come with us? Could they swing the time? Would it be safe? I waited for their yes before confirming with my cousin. That first trip, they came—my dad and I split the driving. I drove the first 9.5 hours straight. It was exhausting, but we made it. And it was worth it.

The kids had an amazing time. Cousins their age, space to run, new toys, new routines—it felt like summer camp wrapped into a family reunion. So when the time came to plan another visit, I was ready.

But this time, no one else was.

My parents would be out of the country. My sister (understandably) prefers a quick flight over a 12-hour drive. And when I mentioned going again, this time on my own with the kids, I got an emphatic no. That it was irresponsible. Unsafe. That I was acting like a teenager, not a capable, grown mother of two.

So I stopped talking about it.

But I knew we were going.

In classic Rochelly fashion, I quietly started prepping. Packed the car the night before—snacks, juice boxes, water bottles, a cooler full of milk, extra outfits, wipes, chargers, blankets. I probably overpacked. Who brings four pairs of shoes per person on a road trip? Me. I do.

The morning of, I woke the kids at 4:30, made breakfast to-go (frozen chocolate chip waffles and chocolate milk, don’t judge), and tucked them into the car with their iPads and cozy blankets. At 5 a.m., we pulled out of the driveway.

And we were fine.

Actually—we were great.

The sky was clear, the roads were quiet. We played games, pointed out cows and horses, counted how many red trucks we could find. We stopped more than we did the first trip, not out of necessity but for comfort. It was slower and easier and somehow more sacred. We were choosing ease, not just survival.

At a rest stop, somewhere halfway there, I had this moment—standing next to the car, stretching my back, sipping cold coffee out of a paper cup—and it hit me.

This was our first trip. Just the three of us. No backup. No co-pilot. No one to lean on if something went sideways. Just me, two kids, and a car full of snacks and hope.

And we were doing it.

That realization made me tear up—half pride, half exhaustion, and maybe a little bit of healing. I hadn’t realized how long I’d been waiting for someone to give me permission to go. To live. To show my kids that we could do hard things, joyful things, spontaneous things… all by ourselves.

That last stretch—those never-ending 3 hours once you're already in Ohio (because yes, it somehow takes 3 hours to drive through Ohio once you’re in Ohio)—that was the hardest part. The kids got antsy. I got tired. But not the “fall asleep at the wheel” tired. The kind of tired that’s actually a little sweet. The kind that says, you’re doing something big and brave, and it’s okay to be tired doing it.

We made it.

And the drive back? A breeze. We laughed more, stopped when we felt like it, and rolled into our driveway feeling like champions.

I’ll write about the week we spent there another time—how the kids bonded with their cousins, how I found a strange sense of home in someone else’s living room. But today, I just want to honor the trip itself.

Because this road trip was more than just 12 hours on the highway. It was a marker. A moment. A declaration.

I don’t need permission anymore. I don’t need backup to make memories. We are our own little team now.

And we are more than capable.

💜 — Rochelly