I moved nearly 2,000 miles for love. By the time I left Moab, I knew I could never go back.
I didn’t book that trip to Moab to save my life. When I reserved Levi’s Landing months in advance, I imagined it as a little desert getaway for me, my fiancé, and my daughter. Back then, I thought he’d be by my side. I thought it would be a trip to make new memories together.
But by the time the date rolled around, everything was different. At the end of May, I had packed up my life and moved nearly 2,000 miles across the country with my 9-year-old daughter to be with him. What I found on the other side wasn’t the fresh start I had dreamed of—it was a prison. He was controlling, manipulative, and chipped away at me until I hardly recognized myself anymore.
When I realized I couldn’t face Moab with him, I decided to keep the booking anyway. Only this time, I invited my friend Jasmine and her daughter to join me and my daughter. On the surface, it looked like an ordinary mom trip: pack too many snacks, toss swimsuits in a bag, hope the kids slept through the night. But deep down, I knew it was more than that. I was gasping for oxygen in a relationship that had been suffocating me for far too long.
The Desert Doesn’t Lie
Moab is one of those places that strips you bare. The red rock cliffs, the endless sky, the way the sun hits the earth like fire—it doesn’t let you hide. You can’t pretend in the desert. It’s too raw, too vast, too honest.
On our first morning, I woke up to the girls’ laughter echoing through the cabin. I stepped outside, barefoot, and stared at the horizon. Something inside me cracked. For the first time in months—maybe years—I felt still. I wasn’t bracing for his criticism. I wasn’t calculating how to keep him calm. I wasn’t walking on eggshells.
I was just me.
The Mirror I Didn’t Want
When you’ve been in a controlling, abusive relationship, you get used to shrinking. You get used to second-guessing every move, every outfit, every word. You learn how to keep the peace by losing yourself.
But in Moab, I watched Jasmine. I watched the way her husband spoke to her over the phone—kind, respectful, supportive. I saw how she laughed freely, how she carried herself without fear of being judged or torn down. And I realized that what I had been living with wasn’t normal. It wasn’t love. It wasn’t okay.
The contrast was like a slap across the face. For months I had been convincing myself to endure, to adapt, to make it work because I had moved so far and given up so much. But standing there with Jasmine, I finally saw the truth: love shouldn’t make you small. Love shouldn’t break you down. Love shouldn’t demand the sacrifice of your voice.
The Breaking Point
One afternoon, we hiked with the girls through the red arches, their small legs scrambling up rocks, their hair wild in the desert wind. They were fearless, climbing higher than I thought they could. Jasmine and I kept glancing at each other, half-nervous, half-proud, calling out encouragements.
And then it hit me like a gut punch: They are braver than me.
My daughter was braver than me.
I was teaching her to scale cliffs, to believe in her body, to trust her strength—but at home, I was showing her that it was okay for a man to control me, to belittle me, to break me down. I couldn’t let that be her lesson.
Moab Gave Me Back My Voice
On our last night, we sat outside under a sky heavy with stars. The desert was silent except for the chirp of crickets and the girls’ whispers. I cracked open a beer and I said the words I hadn’t been able to say out loud:
“I can’t go back to him.”
The air felt lighter. My chest didn’t hurt anymore. I felt the truth settle into my bones, steady and unshakable. I had come to Moab searching for air—and I found my courage instead.
Walking Away
When I drove away from Levi’s Landing, I wasn’t just leaving an Airbnb in Moab. I was leaving behind a version of myself that I could no longer carry. Moab gave me the space to breathe, the mirror to see, and the courage to act.
Four days. That’s all it took to change my life.
Closing Note to Readers
If you’ve ever been in a relationship that made you smaller, know this: freedom feels like red rocks and starlit skies. It feels like laughter you don’t have to explain. It feels like remembering that you matter.
Sometimes, all it takes is a trip to the desert—and the reminder that you already hold the courage you’re looking for.
