The Roads We Travel Within
An unexpected reunion that made me rethink my past.
About six months ago, I started writing and posting my stories on Substack. Since then, I’ve become more and more aware of how the smallest interactions, the people I meet, and even the unexpected turns in an ordinary day are constantly shaping who I am. I’ve realized that life is a road trip I never really graduate from — and I’m still learning lessons at every mile marker.
Tonight, in the most last-minute of plans, I had the opportunity to reconnect with a schoolmate I hadn’t seen in more than twenty years. This wasn’t part of my travels in the Casita — I was in Minnesota for my daughter’s wedding — but it reminded me that the open road isn’t always about where the tires take you. Sometimes the adventure shows up in the conversations that catch you completely by surprise.
Molly and I first became friends back in junior high. Because our last names fell close together alphabetically, we spent years seated near each other in homeroom, and our lockers were always side by side. Day after day, year after year, her presence was part of my routine.
Molly was — and still is — a ray of light. She radiated positivity, always smiling, always carrying an energy that lifted those around her. Everyone seemed to love her. I certainly did. And maybe that’s why her presence mattered so much to me. Because at that time, I felt the exact opposite about myself.
I saw myself as awkward. Strange. Small. I didn’t know how to assimilate, how to relate to the other boys in my class. I was unusually short and a late bloomer. Between 10th and 12th grade, I grew nearly a foot in height so quickly that I was in constant physical pain. I always knew I was different, though I couldn’t have told you why. All I knew was that I didn’t quite belong.
So when Molly looked at me tonight and said, out of nowhere, that she had “absolutely loved me in high school,” I was stunned. She described what she admired about me, what she remembered, and it left me completely off guard.
But it wasn’t the first time I’d heard something like this. About twenty years ago, I reconnected with another high school friend — Warren. He told me that for years he’d sat behind me in class with a huge crush on me. Again, I was floored. Back then, I honestly believed no one even noticed me, let alone admired me — in that way, or any way.
Warren has since passed, and I hadn’t thought much about that conversation until Molly reminded me tonight. Suddenly, it all came rushing back — the disbelief, the flattery, the strange sense of regret for not having seen myself through the kinder eyes of others.
And that’s when the lesson hit me: how we see ourselves is almost never how others see us. In those years, I was blind to the truth that others found joy, light, and even love in me. I spent so much energy believing I wasn’t enough that I missed the fact that, to someone else, I already was.
If I could go back and say something to my 14-year-old self, it would be this:
"You are not invisible. You are not as awkward as you think. The things you feel set you apart are the same things that people notice, admire, and even love about you. The people around you see a light you cannot yet see in yourself. Don’t waste so much time trying to shrink yourself to fit in. You are already enough, just as you are."
The truth is, most of us never really know how we are seen by others until much later — if ever. We carry around versions of ourselves built from insecurity, while the people beside us often see something entirely different: someone kind, someone brave, someone worth remembering.
Molly’s words tonight, and Warren’s words years ago, reminded me of that. We may never fully understand the impact we have on those around us. But if I’ve learned anything from over fifty years of life on this open road, it’s that the way we see ourselves is only one story. Sometimes the people around us have been writing a much kinder one all along.
So now I’ll ask you…
If you could go back and tell your younger self one thing, what would it be?
-R. Michael