Travelers Rest

Learning how to stay when letting go is the only way forward

This is a longer piece. Thank you for staying with me.

I closed the car door in silence.

The tears had already started in the conference room—steady, insistent. I knew I had to get out before the flood came. Once inside the car, I let them take over. Chris sat beside me and let it happen, as if either of us had a choice.

I waited for CarPlay to connect so I could put in the hotel address. I started down the winding road, the tears still falling. They didn’t stop for hours. It wasn’t an ugly cry—more like a continuous stream, with no end in sight.

I remember nothing of that drive. I remember thinking, I shouldn’t be driving. I’m not okay to be driving.
I kept going anyway.

When we walked into the hotel lobby, I noticed the giant Christmas tree. We were supposed to get a picture of Carter in front of it. I forgot. Now he was gone.

The room was still a mess from the night before. I went straight to the bed and sat there, unmoving, tears still coming.

My phone had been lighting up all morning. I barely had the energy to read the messages, much less respond. What was I supposed to say?

I’m fine.
He’s there and I’m here.
I’m doing okay—thanks for asking.

I was not okay.

I called JD first-my partner. I was right on the edge of hysteria, and I knew Mondays were his busiest days. I was grateful he answered anyway—grateful he listened, grateful he held space for my pain. I could not get through this without this wonderful man.

Then I called my sister. She let me cry—no fixing, no rushing. I could barely focus long enough to tell her there was no goodbye. He was just… gone. I told her I needed to see him. I needed him to know I wasn’t abandoning him, disappearing onto a plane far from home.

She listened. I cried. She felt helpless. I wished she were there. I needed support—real support—and I didn’t yet know how to name what that meant. I only knew I didn’t have it in that moment.

I curled into the blankets and let myself feel everything. This was new for me, and I was grateful—for the years of therapy that had taught me how to stay instead of flee. When the intensity finally softened, I asked myself a simple question:

What would bring me even a small amount of joy right now?

Plants.

Plants would help.

A quick search led me to Plant Stella. My dog’s name is Stella, so I knew I had to go. Plants and Stella—how could that not be a sign? Add a coffee bar, and it felt like a small miracle.

If you ever find yourself in Greenville, South Carolina, look it up. It’s absolutely lovely.

I wandered slowly, asking too many questions. I had recently entered my plant-mom era, my curiosity blooming alongside the leaves. Three years ago, I couldn’t keep anything green alive. The truth is, I never tried. I was too busy chasing kids, managing crises, planning and doing all the things. There was no space left for tending.

Things are changing. I’m grateful for a hobby that brings beauty and gentleness into my days.

I wanted something to mark this moment—to anchor it in time. I was drawn to small, heart-shaped succulents. The Sweetheart plant. I asked all the questions and knew I needed several. I shared just a sliver of our reality with the young man helping me. It turned out he’d studied to be a school psychologist and had interned at Springbrook. He didn’t pry. He just nodded—understanding—and carefully packaged my heart-shaped plants so they could travel home with me.

I knew I would cherish them always. They would carry Carter with them.

Mason, my youngest-fourteen and wonderfully opinionated-had been teasing me about all my plants being green. He wanted color—kept nudging me to bring more color into our lives. Carter was the color. He was vibrance and brightness and energy.

So I found a Ruby Rubber Tree—pink and green and unapologetically alive. Something big. Something joyful. Something that would always remind me of the color Carter brings into this world.

Caring for plants feels like practice—practice in staying, in hoping, in surviving.

The Sweetheart Plant and The Ruby Rubber

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I woke the next morning with only one thought: I need to see my son.

After a quick shower and hurried packing, we headed back. Buzzing into the now-familiar building, I felt both desperate and calm—longing and steady at the same time. We waited in the same conference room. The same man told us Carter was doing well. The plan was for us to leave first after our visit so they could transition him back to the unit.

The unit. Sterile. Clinical.

When Carter walked in, I shot out of my chair and wrapped my arms around him. I couldn’t hold him close enough. He didn’t pull away. He didn’t resist. I showered him with I love yous and I missed you so much.

We sat. I asked him everything. He seemed both happy and resigned. He talked about his room, his day. He asked how long he would stay.

We told him he’d be there for a while.

I told him I would come back. That I would visit as soon as I could. That we would still get Burger King and go to Sky Zone—because I needed him to know my words matter. That I hadn’t tricked him. That trust still mattered.

I’ve spoken a lot about what I needed in those days. But what did Carter need?

He needed safety. That was it.

The last six months had taken us from exhausting-but-manageable to impossible. There was no peace. No rest. Only chaos, fear, and danger. He needed a locked facility. Consistent staff. Predictability. He needed what we could no longer provide at home.

The facility is in a town called Travelers Rest.

And that’s what we all needed.

Rest.

Later, I boarded the plane with my plants and flew home—carrying grief, hope, and the quiet belief that sometimes love looks like letting go, so everyone can begin to heal.