The Woman at Roy’s Motel and Cafe on Route 66 wasn’t supposed to be there. Not in Amboy, not in the desert, and certainly not in the middle of Roy’s. Yet there she was, suitcase in the trunk, funeral program still riding shotgun.
She had flown out for a funeral in California and planned to head back to New Jersey quickly. But when the time came to fly home, something inside her resisted. “I think I need to drive it,” she told me. “Thought to myself, I want to take Route 66 back. I just didn’t plan for that.”
No snacks, no booked rooms—her stop at Roy’s was simply to ask how close she was to a motel. I told her Needles was about two hours east. Best to rest there, let the sun rise fresh, and begin the journey with coffee, clean sheets, and a little breathing room for her heart.
She nodded, mentioning she wanted to see Oatman. “Maybe the burros have something to teach me,” she said with a tired smile. There was no grand plan, only instinct and ache that now had miles to travel. The Woman at Roy’s, Route 66 traveler or not, was about to discover how the open road makes its own kind of therapy.
I asked her to email me when she got home. She promised, and she did—safe and sound. And just like that, she was gone, carrying grief in her suitcase, ache in her heart, and just enough faith to believe the road might carry her too.
It was simple, but it mattered.
✨ Roadside Reflection: The Woman at Roy’s
Sometimes the bravest route is the one you didn’t pack for. Sometimes healing doesn’t wait for the perfect moment. It shows up dusty, unscheduled, and just in time.
And sometimes, all you need is one good conversation with a stranger in the middle of nowhere… and the courage to keep driving.
Read more: Journal Page | History of U.S. Route 66