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“Still More Road Ahead”
I’ve driven Route 66 in every state but one. From California’s desert wind to the sandstone cliffs of New Mexico…
the neon diners, the ghost towns, the wide-open silence that stretches like a balm across Arizona and Oklahoma and Texas. I’ve rolled through all of it. All of it… except Illinois.
That one stretch — the beginning, technically — has managed to slip through my fingers. Missed it when I left Ohio heading west. Missed it again coming back from the Pacific, tired and ready for home. It’s the last piece I haven’t driven. And in some strange way, that missing leg keeps the dream alive.
See, I didn’t set out to “do Route 66” in some checklist kind of way. I wasn’t trying to collect motel postcards or snap selfies at every kitschy roadside stop. I just needed space. The kind you don’t find on an interstate. The kind that lets your spirit catch its breath.
Because the truth is, I hit the road in pieces. Not broken exactly, just… stretched thin. Like so many of us, I had that fog behind the eyes,
that tightness in the chest, that quiet hum of exhaustion that doesn’t shut off when the laptop does. And one day, I just knew: I needed to go somewhere that didn’t need anything from me. So I drove.
Didn’t overthink it. Just followed the road where it wanted to go. And what I found, mile by mile, was something slower. Something quieter. Something healing, not in the dramatic, “change your life in a weekend” kind of way, but in the gentle kind. The kind that sneaks up on you between gas stations and forgotten towns,
under wide skies and at diners where no one cares what you do for a living. Somewhere in New Mexico, I pulled off at a trading post. Bought a cup of coffee in a paper cup and stood there while the wind kicked up little dust devils in the parking lot.
Nothing special. No epiphany. But something in me exhaled. And I started to feel… human again. That’s the magic of this road. It doesn’t care how many emails you’ve ignored. It doesn’t ask you to hustle or fix yourself. It just rolls out in front of you and says, “You good? Let’s keep going.”
There’s a kind of therapy that happens behind the wheel at 55 miles an hour, with nothing but static on the radio and a sky big enough to remind you your problems aren’t permanent. Out there, healing doesn’t come on cue. It comes when it’s ready. In a diner booth. At a gas pump. Sitting on a motel bed staring at a map you forgot you’d been tracing with your finger. And that map? It still has Illinois waiting.
Funny thing is, I don’t feel incomplete. That last leg isn’t a failure. It’s an invitation. It reminds me that the journey isn’t finished, and neither am I. I think we all need something like that. A stretch of road we haven’t driven yet. Something ahead. Some place calling us not because we need to escape, but because we’re ready to return — to ourselves.
One day, I’ll drive that Illinois stretch. From Joliet down through the old alignments. I’ll sit in a booth somewhere near Pontiac, order something smothered in gravy, and let that last piece click into place. But even before I get there, Route 66 has already done its work. It gave me time. It gave me silence. It gave me a place to feel small in the best possible way. And it gave me back the parts of myself that the rush of life had worn thin.
So if your spirit’s running low, if your heart feels tangled and your head’s too full… You don’t need a grand plan. Just a tank of gas and a little room to unravel. Start wherever you are. Go as far as you need. And leave space for what’s still to come. Because sometimes the healing isn’t in what you’ve completed — It’s in the knowing that there’s still more road ahead.
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.