The Night I Drove Into the Woods to End It All

Apr 02, 2026

Late summer turning into early fall, 2010. I’m living in a rundown trailer in the middle of a sketchy trailer park in Boulder Junction, Wisconsin. Every night the same scene: people gathered around bonfires, drinking, then the yelling starts, the chasing, the screaming and crying echoing between the lots until the early hours.

I had just found out my boyfriend was cheating. In my desperation I actually messaged the other girl: ‘Hey, can you please leave my man alone?’ Yeah… I was that far gone.

His mom handed me a couple Xanax bars on my way out of her house. I popped them right there on the porch. Stopped at the smoke shop, bought a bottle of Bacardi Limon, and climbed into my car. The .270 Savage hunting rifle I’d earned with my grandpa was in the back seat with a box of bullets. I twisted the cap off the rum and started guzzling it straight — no chaser — the lemon burn lighting up my throat while I drove County M back toward Boulder Junction.

The pain in my chest was so heavy it felt insurmountable. I didn’t want to feel it anymore. At first I thought about using the rifle on myself, but it was too long, too awkward. Then the idea hit: just speed up and crank the wheel hard into the woods. So I did. Foot slammed on the gas, both hands yanked the steering wheel, and the car left the highway screaming into the dark trees.

I don’t remember the crash. Just the sudden silence. Interior lights still on. Blood warm on my face. Someone knocking on the window, asking if I was okay. Then flashing red-and-blue lights, paramedics cutting my clothes off, the cold air on my skin, and nothing…

I woke up a full day later in Wausau hospital with a tube down my throat, hands tied to the bed rails so I couldn’t pull it out. My boyfriend wouldn’t come get me. His sister-in-law picked me up instead. When I walked back into our trailer, her clothes were scattered on the floor, her makeup on the counter, her scent still hanging in the air we used to share. That moment broke what was left of me.

But somehow I crawled out. It took millions of tiny millimeters — one hard day at a time — but I did. Ten years sober from methamphetamine now. I’m happily married to a man who shows up. My kids are thriving and safe. That dark drive didn’t get the final word.

The reason I told you this story is: we all have our version of that dark drive where the pain feels too big to carry one more mile.
Has this ever happened to you?
My challenge to you is: if you’re on that drive right now, know you can still come back. Progress is progress — whether it’s a mile or a millimeter. You’re not alone, and there is life on the other side. Drop a comment with how many millimeters you’ve already come — I read every single one.”

10-Minute Version (Full workshop / longer social series piece)

Use this when you want to go deeper — more sensory on the drive, the hospital smells/sounds, and the slow crawl back.

“Late summer turning into early fall, 2010. I’m living in a beat-up single-wide trailer in the middle of a sketchy trailer park in Boulder Junction, Wisconsin. Every single night you could sit on the rickety steps and watch the same show: people around bonfires passing bottles, laughing, then the drinking turns ugly — yelling, chasing each other between the lots, screaming, crying, fists flying under the streetlights until the early hours.

I had just found out my boyfriend was cheating. In my desperate, broken state I actually reached out to the girl: ‘Hey… can you please leave my man alone?’ Looking back I cringe, but that’s how lost I was.

I left his mom’s house after she handed me a couple Xanax bars. I popped them right there on the porch. Stopped at the smoke shop, bought a bottle of Bacardi Limon, and got behind the wheel of my car. The .270 Savage rifle I’d hunted with for years sat in the back seat with a box of bullets. I twisted the cap off the rum and started pounding it straight — no chaser — the sweet-lemon burn lighting up my throat and stomach while the highway lines blurred past on County M.

The pain in my chest felt insurmountable. I just wanted it to stop. I thought about the rifle, but it was too long, too awkward in the car. Then the idea crystallized: just speed up and crank the wheel hard into the woods. So I did. Foot slammed the gas pedal to the floor, both hands yanked the steering wheel, and the car left the blacktop screaming into the dark trees.

I don’t remember the impact. Just sudden silence. Interior lights still glowing. Warm blood on my face. Someone knocking on the window, voice muffled. Then flashing ambulance lights, cold scissors cutting my clothes away, the night air on my skin, and everything fading to black.

I woke up a full day later in Wausau hospital. Tube down my throat. Hands tied to the bed rails with soft restraints so I couldn’t pull it out. The beeps of machines, the smell of antiseptic and stale sheets, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. My boyfriend wouldn’t come get me. His sister-in-law picked me up instead. When I walked back into our trailer, her clothes were thrown across the couch we used to share, her makeup scattered on the bathroom counter, her scent still thick in the air. That moment shattered whatever was left.

But somehow — with my mom’s help talking to the doctors — I walked out of there without jail or the psych ward. I didn’t leave the trailer right away. It took millions of tiny millimeters after that night: one hard choice, one small step, one day I didn’t use, one boundary I finally set.

Ten years sober from methamphetamine now. I’m happily married to a man who actually shows up. My kids are healthy, safe, and thriving. That dark drive through the woods didn’t get the final word on my story.

The reason I told you this story is: we all have our version of that dark drive where the pain feels too big to carry one more mile.

Has this ever happened to you?

My challenge to you is: if you’re on that drive right now, know you can still come back. Progress is progress — whether it’s a mile or a millimeter. You’re not alone, and there is warm, stable, beautiful life waiting on the other side.

Drop a comment with one millimeter you’ve already taken — I read every single one.

Progress is Progress

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