Standing on the beach in St. Bees, I picked up the rock I would carry 192 miles across England. I looked like a kid on their first day of school—new hiking pants, new shirt, new hat, my new Garmin clicked into place, and a camera wrapped in a bright red case hanging from my new pack. A fellow hiker took my photo in front of the Wainwright's Coast to Coast sign that marked the start of my solo hike. I smiled brightly, but inside I was terrified of what I would find on the trail. I mean, I'm in England, where English is the language, and there aren't any bears in sight. What's there to be afraid of? I didn't know! That's what was so scary!

I asked myself why I was here. What did I think I was trying to prove? The answer was: a lot. I'm proving a lot. I'm showing myself that I'm stronger than I think I am. I can, in fact, navigate a whole country alone. At a little over one year sober, I went on this journey to be myself—not find myself. I wasn't lost yet, but I needed to be in my own skin without anyone else telling me who I should be. I don't have to be a mother, a business owner, a wife, a sister, a daughter, or anything on this trail. I get to be me, on my own two feet, walking and walking and walking. Probably with a side of crying, too, but we'll get to that part later.

You're Stronger Than You Think

Wainwright's Coast to Coast starts at the beach and meanders along the seaside, where gorse bushes give off a sweet, wonderful scent. The start is deceptively easy, but remember—the walk is 192 miles and I decided to do it in 14 days. I had a long way to go on that first day.

I learned a hard lesson: food is essential. When I arrived in St. Bees the night before, I didn't realize you had to make reservations at all the pubs for dinner. I was turned away from several places before I found a store where I could buy food. Nerves were running the show, so a Twix and Dr Pepper for dinner would have to do. I would regret that decision on the first big hill that showed up 10 miles in. I started to feel faint, so I sat in the grass and ate part of my packed lunch. It was a scary lesson—I didn't want to be helicopter-rescued on my first day! Once I had food in my system, I rallied and made it to my first night's hotel, where I ate a burger and fries by a fireplace in a very English dining room.

I spent the next few days in the Lake District—gorgeous landscape, brutal hiking. Up and down. Over and over. This was said to be the most challenging part of the trail, and all the guidebooks recommended getting it over with first. On one of my 18-mile days, I hobbled into town barely able to think because my feet hurt so badly. The inn staff were so friendly, and I was having none of it. I showered and lay in my bed crying. I was sure I couldn't go on. It was just too hard. Every inch of my body hurts. Despite learning that food was essential, the only place to get it in town was a mile away. I went to bed hungry and broken that night. I had one more day in the Lake District, and I was scared I wouldn't physically be able to do it.

Strangely, I woke up, ate breakfast, and my body—the traitor that it is—decided I was fine and could continue. So I packed my day pack, wrote my next stop on the tag on my luggage so it could be delivered while I hiked, and took off for another day on the trail.

The Unexpected Gifts

A friend met me for dinner that night. Fish and chips! Crispy fried goodness as my reward for enduring the last day in the Lake District. I would be entering the Yorkshire Dales next. That same friend hiked with me the following day, and it was such a treat to have someone along for the trek. The miles ticked away faster, and the food tasted better. It could be the shared experience. Maybe it was feeling less fear having someone with me. We could be lost together!

That time spent with a friend helped me continue. It showed me how much I had learned on the trail up until that point. We went to dinner in Kirkby Stephen, where a cheese toasty was enjoyed—because what's better after a long day than melted cheese and good company?

You Can Find Your Way

There were so many days when I couldn't find my way. Where I started off on one path only to find it was the wrong one. My Garmin was great, but it had a tiny screen, and I couldn't quite make out where I was going. At one point, I followed a tiny trail along the side of a hill and then had to scramble up a muddy slope to get back on track. When I clawed my way over the edge, I saw an obvious, very wide path that I was supposed to be on. Then there was the time I crawled through a dense hedgerow to find that I was off track and had to go back into the dense hedgerow.

Not all paths are a straight line or even easy to find the start of. But trusting my maps and intuition was what generally got me back on track. There are so many moments in life when we reach a fork in the road and have to decide which path will get us where we want to go. We have to choose without knowing what's ahead, and that isn't easy.

The Fork in My Trail

Eventually, I made my way to Robin Hood's Bay, where the tide was out and I had to walk through a lot of wet sand to get to the water's edge. I took out my rock that had shared my 192-mile journey and threw it into the North Sea. Another hiker was there and took my photo. I was still smiling brightly, but I was stronger, more confident, and there may have been a little dirt under my nails.

Knowing what I'm capable of and what I accomplished on that hike has given me the courage to face new challenges and brave new situations. That journey is why I'm building Fork in the Trail—because I want other women to discover what they're capable of, too. To find their own strength on a trail that combines the food, culture, and adventure that makes travel transformative.

Every hike starts with a step in one direction, and gosh darn it, I wish every hike ended with an ice cream cone and a side of fish and chips. But the real reward? It's being you along the way.

Where is your fork in the trail? What are you walking toward?