Not all Adventures Start with a Backpack

I  was eight years old when I took my first real solo adventure. I didn’t have a map or money. No backpack. Just a growing sense that no one was coming to help me — not really.

That year, my school introduced staggered start times based on reading levels. My group began at 9:30 AM instead of the usual 8:30. Whether it was a remedial placement or not, I always suspected it was. I hadn’t grown up with books,

My dad didn’t believe me when I told him I started school later than my sister. He hadn’t attended any of the parent meetings or back-to-school nights. I remember asking my grandma to come with me once—she gave me a ride but mostly relied on me to bring any important information back home.

At the beginning of the year, all the students started at the same time. But after the first week, following some in-class testing, the teachers divided us into groups with different start times. I can’t say for sure whether I gave my dad the paperwork or not, but I feel like I did. Either way, the message didn’t stick—and he just kept sending me out the door early with my sister.

Every morning, I walked my sister to school and then tried to disappear. I waited near a crossing guard on Harrison Street — one of the few adults who felt safe, who saw me without suspicion or judgment.

.

She stood at one of the busiest intersections near. Every day, in her bright vest and with her steady hands, she helped kids cross safely. But for me, she was much more than that. She became my anchor.

Each morning, I’d return to Harrison Street and hang out with her. We talked. Sometimes about nothing. Sometimes about everything. We laughed. She listened. She never made me feel wrong for being there.

Then, one day, she wasn’t at her post.

No vest. No wave. No smile. Just an empty sidewalk and a street that suddenly felt much more dangerous.

I stood still, unsure what to do. My hour of limbo felt ten times longer without her.

I couldn’t go home—that would trigger anger. I couldn’t loiter near the school—what if someone called my dad and told him I’d been hanging around? He might feel embarrassed or challenged.

The person I trusted—my morning constant—was gone.

So I did what scared kids in survival mode do: I found another way.

I decided to walk to my grandparents’ house—three miles across town.

It was far. I didn’t know what I’d say when I got there. But I knew I had to go. I couldn't stay where I wasn’t safe, and I couldn’t risk being found in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I took the backroads, the ones my grandma used to drive because she didn’t like the main roads either. I stayed off Harrison—too exposed without my crossing guard there.

I zigzagged through side streets, hiding when I needed to. Dodging barking dogs. Avoiding curious stares from retirees watering their lawns. One of them could’ve known my grandpa, and I wasn’t ready to be found.

What I was doing was part adventure, part self-rescue. It wasn’t rebellion. It was strategy. And slowly, fear gave way to something else: Agency, Strength, Self-trust.

Big Sur, CA (not my grandparents steps)

By the time I made it to their front steps, I was drained. My grandma was at work. My grandpa was gone. I sat. I waited. Then I saw a car. I panicked and hid in the bushes. It was my grandpa, being dropped off after a round of golf. He saw me. Of course he did. And still, he said nothing at first. He let me have that moment.

Then, gently — no raised voice, no suspicion — he opened the door and said, “Hey kiddo.”

He didn’t ask, “What’s wrong with you?”He didn’t say, “Why didn’t you go to school?”He asked, “What happened?”

I told him the truth. And instead of lecturing me or making me feel small, he listened. He drove me straight to the school. Walked me to my classroom. Talked to my teacher. Got the confirmation. Got the truth — not for himself, but for my father. He handled it all like it was the most normal thing in the world.

And in that moment, being the calm adult I needed, who believed me and helped me without making me feel like a burden.

🌱 Why That Walk Still Matters

It would be easy to file that day under “childhood rebellion” or “funny memory.” But that’s not what it was. That was one day I learned I could survive.

I learned that I could be brave and navigate a world that didn’t make space for me. That I could move through fear, through shame, through uncertainty — and still make it somewhere safe.

It didn’t fix everything.

I had walked through confusion, doubt, and danger — not with confidence, but with courage.

That walk didn’t just get me out of a morning. It helped me get behind a lifelong belief: If I could do that, I could do anything.

Grassland National Reserve, SD

To this day, I still take the long way around. I still feel that tug toward adventure — not the kind you post about, but the kind that makes you feel something shift inside. Because deep down, I still remember what it felt like to be small, dismissed, and determined. And I still remember those moments I prove to myself: Even when the people who are supposed to protect you don’t believe in you — you can believe in yourself.

🖋️ Author’s Note

Some kids run away for attention. Others walk away to survive. If this story resonates with you — you’re not alone. Your strength didn’t start when someone gave you permission. It started the first time you walked through something scary and came out the other side, still breathing.