I’ve always been the person who feels like rest is a sign of weakness. If I wasn’t moving, achieving, or crossing something off my list, I felt like I wasn’t doing enough. Sound familiar?

But on this trip, my body didn’t give me a choice. Some days, I had to stop early and rest, even when my mind was screaming at me to keep going. At first, it felt uncomfortable—like I was failing. But slowly, rest became something different. It became an act of trust. I stopped measuring my worth by how many kilometers I covered and started seeing rest as part of the adventure.

It wasn’t easy, but it changed everything.

You know those moments when your brain just won’t shut up? Imagine hours of that, every single day. Bikepacking solo meant I spent a lot of time with my own thoughts, and I wasn’t always a fan of what showed up.

At first, it was brutal. I confronted self-doubt, comparison, and the relentless voice telling me I had something to prove. But over time, something softened. I learned to stop fighting those thoughts and instead, meet them with curiosity. My inner voice shifted from a harsh critic to more of a steady companion—one that cheered me on when things got hard and reminded me to laugh at myself when I wiped out (which happened more than I’d like to admit).

I’ve always been pretty comfortable in my skin, but this trip gave me a whole new level of respect for what my body is capable of. My legs carried me up mountains and across thousands of kilometers. My hands became mechanics, fixing flat tires and handling whatever the road threw my way.

It wasn’t about looking a certain way or hitting some goal. It was about trusting my body to do what it needed to do—and realizing how often we forget to appreciate all the small, incredible things our bodies do every day, whether it’s carrying groceries, running after kids, or just getting us through the week.

One of the biggest lessons I learned was how much joy there is in the little moments. A warm cup of coffee after a freezing night in my tent. The sound of tires buzzing on smooth pavement. Watching the sun dip below the horizon after a long day. Those little moments saved me.

They reminded me that joy doesn’t have to come from something big or flashy. Most of the time, it’s right there in front of us—we just have to notice it.

I’ve spent a lot of my life trying to get things “right”—to meet the expectations I set for myself, or worse, the ones I think other people have for me. But nature doesn’t care if you’re perfect. It just is.

The wind, the sun, the endless roads—they didn’t care if I was strong or fast or if I had my life together. Being out there for so long helped me let go of needing things to be perfect. I learned to just show up, messy and tired and totally unsure, and let that be enough.

One of the biggest lessons I’ve taken from this trip is that self-love isn’t something you figure out once and then have forever. It’s always changing, always evolving. Some days, it felt easy to show up for myself. I’d feel strong, grounded, and in sync with the world around me. But other days, I’d question everything, feeling like I was right back at square one.

And that’s okay. Self-love isn’t about getting it “right” all the time. It’s about staying open to the process, knowing that you’ll grow through each experience, even the tough ones. What self-love looked like on Day 1 of my trip—navigating nerves and uncertainty—was totally different from what it looked like on Day 150, when I was just trying to hold it together through exhaustion and endless headwinds.

Every version of me along the way deserved love and compassion. And I’m still learning how to give myself that grace as I move into whatever’s next.