I have made the drive between El Paso and Phoenix more times than I can count.
So many, in fact, that I could probably tell you where “The Thing” billboards start, where the decent bathrooms are, and exactly which stretch of Interstate 10 seems to exist solely to remind you that deserts have absolutely no interest in entertaining you.
This trip was different, though.
AJ had begged me to take him to Tempe to see his favorite artist, Connor Price. If you’ve ever traveled with a teenage boy, you’ll understand when I say I essentially made the six-hour drive with a very pleasant hitchhiker. He was there physically. Mentally, he had disappeared into YouTube Shorts behind a pair of AirPods somewhere around 15 minutes in.
We had a great little escape, sing our hearts out at the concert and had a day at the pool. We had just left Phoenix, filled up with gas, and I did what millions of us do every single day. I punched in my home address, mounted my phone, and surrendered my decision-making to the GPS dictator.
“Turn left.” “Merge right.” “In three miles…”
I wasn’t really paying attention. Just following instructions.
Now, before anyone worries, no—I don’t think I’d be the person who drives into a lake simply because my GPS suggested taking a left turn. I’d like to believe I possess at least that much critical thinking. But somewhere outside Phoenix, I realized something wasn’t quite right.
We weren’t heading toward Interstate 10. Instead, we were winding our way onto Highway 70. My first reaction wasn’t profound. It was annoyance.
Seriously, Allie…what the hell are you doing? I’ve driven this route countless times. How did I miss something so obvious? I considered turning around. I thought about recalculating. I wondered how much time this little mistake was going to cost me.
Then I looked up. The mountains were closer. The road curved through little mining towns I’d never seen before. Massive rock formations rose out of nowhere. Tiny communities appeared like hidden postcards tucked between cliffs and desert landscapes I’d somehow managed to miss during years of taking the “right” route.
At one point we drove through Miami. Miami, Arizona. I wasn’t that lost Karen give me a little credit.
AJ looked up long enough to grin and announce that he could now officially tell people he’d been to Miami before promptly disappearing back into his headphones. I laughed out loud.
Somewhere between Globe and Safford, something shifted. Not on the road. In me.
I realized I had spent the first part of this drive irritated because I wasn’t getting where I wanted to go in the fastest, most efficient way possible.
And then it hit me. How often do we live our lives exactly like that? We’re obsessed with the destination. The promotion. The degree. The marriage. The house. The next title. The next milestone. The next thing that will finally make all of this make sense. We’re so focused on arriving that we barely notice the drive.
Looking back, my entire career was built on destinations. Graduate nursing school. Finish my MBA. Become a director. Become a CEO. Become a Regional Vice President. Keep climbing. Keep achieving. Keep proving.
At thirty-seven years old, I had reached a destination most people spend an entire career chasing. I had the title. The responsibility. The office. The seat at the table. From the outside, it looked like I had arrived.
Then life took an exit I never would have chosen. One that wasn’t on my map. One that I could not simply ask Siri to recalculate for me. One that certainly wasn’t part of my five-year plan. One that left me sitting in the dust wondering, What the fuck just happened?
Some days, if I’m honest, I still ask myself that question. At forty-seven, there are moments I look around and wonder where exactly this road is taking me now. Two years ago, I thought I knew. Today, I’m building something entirely different. I’m writing. Speaking. Coaching. Consulting.
Having conversations I never would have had if my career had stayed perfectly on course. Meeting people whose paths never would have crossed mine if I’d stayed safely on Interstate 10. Sometimes I still catch myself wanting to rush through this chapter. To hurry up and figure it out. To get back to certainty. To know exactly where I’m headed. To reach the next destination so I can finally exhale.
But Highway 70 reminded me of something I desperately needed to hear. Some of the most beautiful parts of your life aren’t found on the fastest route. They’re found on the roads you never intended to take.
If I’d realized my mistake sooner, I probably would have turned around. I would have missed every bit of it. The mountains. The tiny towns. Miami, Arizona. The quiet. The thinking. The reminder.
Isn’t that exactly what we do with life? We label every unexpected turn as a setback. Every layoff. Every divorce. Every diagnosis. Every failed business. Every dream that doesn’t unfold according to schedule.
We spend so much energy trying to get back to the route we planned that we never stop long enough to ask whether this new road might actually have something worth seeing.
Maybe the detour isn’t the interruption. Maybe it’s the invitation. I don’t know exactly where this road leads yet. I can’t tell you where my business will be five years from now or what title I’ll eventually carry again. .
I don’t know which stage I’ll stand on next or which opportunity is waiting around the next bend. But I know this. I don’t want to reach my next destination only to realize I spent the entire drive staring at the GPS.
I want to remember the scenery. The conversations. The unexpected towns. The wrong turns that quietly became the right ones.
Because someday, when I look back on this chapter of my life, I don’t want the story to be that I survived the detour. I want it to be that the detour became the best part of the trip.
