Apr 28, 2025

The week before I headed to Atlanta, I had a sudden urge:
I wanted to see the stars.

It came out of nowhere, but the desire was unexpectedly strong. Even though I had lived in Atlanta for four years, I had never actually stepped beyond the city limits to find a place dark enough to see the stars properly. Maybe it was because I was about to say goodbye, or maybe it was a quiet longing that had been there all along.

I casually asked my best friend—let’s call her C—if she’d be interested in going with me. Honestly, I expected her to think I was being a bit ridiculous. Two girls, driving out into the mountains in the middle of the night, just to look at stars? It sounded a little insane.
But to my surprise, she replied almost instantly: “Sure. It’s not even that far.”
In that moment, I felt this quiet kind of happiness—the kind that comes from having a wild little wish taken seriously.

Since I had a 6 a.m. flight in the morning and had just finished teaching a class at 10 p.m. the night before, I was completely exhausted. Not long after we hit the road, I fell asleep in the passenger seat. When I woke up, the car was already climbing up the foothills.

I was still groggy and barely awake, staring out the window at the complete darkness outside. C was driving, gripping the steering wheel tightly. I could feel her tension rising.
"I'm kind of panicking," she said quietly. "Can you talk to me?"

I immediately sat up, trying to find something to say—but my brain was still half-asleep. I just kept repeating, “Give me a topic! I can’t think of anything to say!”
Looking back, it was kind of a mess, but also strangely tender. Two girls fumbling through the dark, trying to calm each other down.

Eventually, we reached the top of the mountain and parked near a small overlook.
The wind hit us the second we got out—sharp and freezing. I had completely underestimated how cold it could get at night in the mountains. I was wearing just a hoodie and a plaid mini skirt.
But the moment I looked up, I forgot about the cold.

The sky above was vast and quiet. The stars weren’t especially bright, but in the total darkness of the woods, they felt incredibly present—raw and honest.
We didn’t say much. No dramatic “wow,” no frantic photo-taking. Just stood there, heads tilted up, breathing in the silence.
And I thought—this is what I had been craving.

On the way down, I was the one driving.
The moment we left the overlook, I tensed up.
The road was even darker than I expected—no reflectors, barely any roadside lights. And the car I had rented, while otherwise great, had shockingly dim headlights. Like, dangerously dim.

That might not sound like a big deal, but for me, it was a real psychological challenge.
Years ago, I had a serious car accident at night. Ever since then, I’d been terrified of driving after dark. Even in Miami, I’d only drive on brightly lit roads that felt more like daylight than night.
But here I was, alone at the wheel, trying to navigate winding mountain roads, in near-total darkness—with a friend who’d just barely recovered from her own panic. My heart was racing, but I knew I couldn’t let it show.

I stared hard at the road, gripping the steering wheel with both hands, whispering in my head: “Stay calm. You can do this.”
My palms were sweating. My shoulders were stiff. But I kept going.
And slowly—almost quietly—the road began to widen. The city lights reappeared on the horizon.
And that’s when it hit me:
I had done it.

I had faced the fear that had haunted me for years.
Not because I was no longer afraid, but because, this time, I chose to face it anyway.

Maybe I really have changed.
I used to avoid everything that scared me.
But now, I want to try. I want to stand still in hard moments. I want to keep going—not to prove anything, but to live more freely.

I think the shift began sometime last year. I realized:
You can’t wait to feel “ready” for everything.
The future is too far away—and life only gives us a few thousand days.
The people you want to meet, the places you want to go, the things you want to see…
You can’t keep putting them off for “someday.”

So I went to see the stars.
It was four years late, but it was still worth it.

Near the end of our descent, the car fell quiet.
C looked out the window for a while, then turned to me and said softly:
"Thank you."

I was a little surprised.
“What for?” I asked.

She smiled a little and said,
“Thank you for helping me do something I’ve always wanted to do but never dared to.”

Then after a pause:
“You know, for two girls—especially ones like us—doing something like this isn’t exactly easy. I’ve lived in Atlanta for years, and I’ve always wanted to go stargazing like this… but I never felt safe enough. Until now.”

I didn’t say much in response—just a quiet “mm.”
But her words stayed with me.
Maybe longer than she’ll ever know.