Unplug Drive Heal. I didn’t set out to unplug. I set out to get away.
But atop Sitgreaves Pass at the lookout between Kingman and Oatman, with the desert stretched out before me like an old friend who doesn’t ask questions, I held down the power button on my phone and turned it off. Not “airplane mode.” Not “do not disturb.” Off.
And I’ll be honest, I panicked for a second. What if someone needed me? What if I missed something important? What if I got lost? But then a funny thing happened. Nothing did. I didn’t get lost. Nobody exploded. The sky didn’t fall. What did happen was something I hadn’t felt in a long time: Stillness.
Not boredom. Stillness. The kind where your shoulders drop without asking permission, and your breath finally makes it all the way in. See, burnout doesn’t kick the door down. It shows up slow. One “yes” when you meant “no.” One late night. One more load you carry even though your hands are already full.
You don’t notice how far you’ve drifted… not until peace feels like a stranger and joy feels like something that only happens to other people. And that’s where Route 66 comes in. It doesn’t fix everything. But it does strip everything down. When you’re driving solo, the distractions fall away.
No emails. No headlines. No buzzing in your pocket. Just pavement…. Just Sky. And the slow, steady rhythm of your thoughts, unfiltered and raw.
At first, it’s unnerving. Like walking into a dark room. But give it a minute… your eyes adjust. And you start to see what’s been hiding in all that noise. Out there, I made myself a few promises. Simple ones. “I’ll rest before I break.” “I’ll say no without guilt.” “I’ll stop trying to earn what I already deserve… grace.” I didn’t make those promises in a meeting or a pew. I made them in a beat-up truck that smelled like coffee and pine tree air freshener, while the sun dropped behind a Joshua tree.
There’s something sacred about that kind of solitude. When no one’s watching. No one’s waiting. No one’s measuring your worth by how much you get done. Just you and the hum of your tires and the occasional breeze that says, You’re still alive. Still whole. Still here. I think we’ve forgotten how healing it can be to step away. Not forever. Not some grand disappearing act. Just long enough to find the sound of your own soul again. To hear that voice beneath the titles and to-do lists. The one that whispers, “Hey… you still with me?”
Route 66 has a way of pulling that voice back out of hiding.
One morning near Amboy, I watched the sun rise over an empty stretch of road. No music. No photo. Just stood there. Hands in my pockets. Wind in my ears. It felt like church. Like a second chance. And when I made it to Santa Monica, I didn’t feel cured. I didn’t feel transformed. I just felt… honest. Like I’d returned to something I hadn’t realized I’d lost. Not a better version of me, just the real one. The one who knows when to stop. When to breathe. When to unplug.
So maybe you’re reading or listening to this at the end of your rope. Maybe you’ve forgotten what rest feels like. Maybe you’ve been holding up the world with a smile that’s starting to crack. Here’s the gentle truth:
You’re allowed to step away. To shut it down. To let the road hold you for a while.
Unplug Drive Heal
Not because you’re weak, But because you’re wise enough to know when to let go. So unplug. Drive. Heal. And let the hum of Route 66 sing you back to life.
Healing Highway is a monthly journal 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 words of encouragement found 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.