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Between Chicago to L.A.
The first time I really drove Route 66, I mean really drove it was years ago… I wasn’t looking for a postcard adventure. I wasn’t trying to find myself. I was just tired. Bone-deep tired. The kind of tired that sleep doesn’t touch. The kind that builds slowly, like layers of dust, missed meals, missed birthdays, unread mail, unspoken words.
I didn’t need a vacation. I needed a way back.
So I filled the tank, packed a cooler with gas station sandwiches and bottled water, and rolled east out of San Bernardino, California. No itinerary. No playlist. Just a quiet hope that the road might know what to do with me.
At first, it felt like any other drive. Rush hour traffic. A scratchy radio station fading in and out. The usual tangle of thoughts buzzing behind my eyes. But not far past the city limits, things started to shift. Strip malls gave way to desert. The skyline disappeared behind me. And I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding for months.
It wasn’t some cinematic moment, no soundtrack swelled, no epiphany hit. Just a slow unwinding. The kind where your shoulders drop an inch… then another… until you remember what it feels like not to be braced for impact all the time.
Between Chicago to L.A. Stops Along The Way
Route 66 in California. Barstow, Daggett, Ludlow, Amboy, under that towering neon beacon at Roy’s to Then Needles, across the river into Arizona, Topock, Oatman, Kingman, Seligman. The road settled into its rhythm, and so did I.
The urgency started to drain out of me. No one needed anything. Nothing was due. The road didn’t care who I was or what I hadn’t done. It just stretched out in front of me like it had nothing but time. And for once, neither did I. I started writing things down in a notebook I’d stuffed in the glove box. Not deep thoughts, just scraps.
A waitress calling me “hon” and sliding a slice of pie across the counter like we’d known each other for years. A wooden cross nailed to a fence post in the New Mexico wind. The kind of silence between towns that makes you forget what noise even is. I wasn’t trying to “capture memories.” I was trying to remember myself. By the time I hit Amarillo, I had no idea what day it was. Didn’t matter.
Somewhere outside Cadillac Ranch, I laughed out loud at nothing at all and realized I hadn’t done that in a long time. It felt ridiculous. And good. The land kept changing, and so did I. Texas blurred. The sky got bigger. And the road got quieter, the road got older. The desert speaks in low tones. Doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t expect anything. Just sits with you like an old friend who knows how to keep company without small talk.
At a gas station near Elk City, I met a guy who told me he drives part of 66 every year on his birthday. “Only place I can hear myself again,” he said. I nodded. I knew exactly what he meant. By the time I rolled into Oklahoma, I’d stopped trying to “get somewhere.” Out near Tulsa, I pulled off just to watch the sky turn that bruised orange it does so well. Didn’t take a picture. Didn’t post it. Didn’t even check the time. I just stood there.
And for the first time in a long while, I felt like I’d come home, not to a place, but to some long-lost version of myself I thought had gone missing for good. When I hit Joplin, it didn’t feel like a finish line. But it was. Time to call it done and make my way home. It felt like I’d been scooped up, dusted off, and gently handed back to myself.
Between Chicago to L.A. Route 66
Route 66 didn’t heal me. But it gave me space to breathe again. To feel again. To remember that I wasn’t broken, I’d just been going too fast for too long. So if you’re hanging on by a thread… If you’ve forgotten what it feels like to be okay in your own skin… Try the road. You don’t need a plan. You don’t need a reason. Just a tank of gas, a little faith, and the willingness to listen to the silence that’s been waiting for you.
No matter where you go, whatever stretch of the Mother Road you choose to follow, Anywhere between Chicago and L.A., the road’s still there. And if you let it, it might just hand you back the parts of yourself you didn’t know you lost.
Healing Highway is a monthly video and stand-alone podcast rooted in mental wellness, spiritual reflection, and lived experience along Route 66. Each episode blends real stories with warm humor, plain-spoken faith, and practical insight for everyday life.
These stories are filmed in ordinary places — diners, quiet overlooks, motel parking lots, small towns that still believe kindness is a reasonable way to live. No hype. No hurry. No performance. Just storytelling, honesty, and the reminder that healing usually begins with one small step.