“Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.” Robert Frost
I recently visited a friend and noticed a photograph on his wall—an image filled with roads. At least ten of them. Some winding. Some straight. Each one different.
When I asked about it, he smiled and said, “Every road has a memory.”
One road, he told me, was the drive he used to take to the coast. That stretch of asphalt held moments with his wife—quiet conversations, shared laughter, time that mattered.
That stayed with me.
It made me think about the roads I’ve traveled—and how they’ve quietly captured my life. Roads are more than routes from one place to another. They hold our stories. Our escapes. Our work. Our love. Our fear. Our growth.
So I started remembering my own.
The road in front of my childhood home—walking it to clear my head, riding the bus, heading to my best friend’s house, to church, or just away from family noise and drama.
A snowy road on the day we moved houses.
Walking the street from my dorm to Monica’s dorm where we first met and fell in love The daily walk from my dorm to the soccer fields where I trained and played on the Ball States soccer team for three years.
The long road to Ashaiman, Ghana—riding in a Land Rover day after day to an irrigation project.
The road from Tema to Accra—my wife and I on a Honda motorcycle, heading out for a special meal or a party at the American embassy.
The road to San Jose for countless polygraph exams
The road to my brother Denny and Karin’s house in Fresno for years of special memories and holiday gatherings
The familiar drive to Fresno—hundreds of times—for nonprofit work, foster programs, and private practice.
The roads around Coarsegold spending time for so many years living with my second deep love and wife Morgan
The roads around the university and up to the dams where I ran daily
The three-hour drive to Sasha’s house, my beautiful, amazing daughter, anticipating even more special bonding and loving memories with my son-in-law Adam, and two grandchildren, Maxwell and Zaccai
The roads to Pismo and Monterey—getaways when life felt heavy.
The road to Oakhurst for my weekly racquet ball games the last five years
Even dusty dirt roads—spur-of-the-moment detours, some reckless, some playful, some quickies
The road to the college demonstration plot, volunteering as a master gardener, spending time there with by best friend Anna
The road to Manzanita lake where I find peace and solitude
As a single person starting over, the most important road I am traveling is inward. I am on a journey toward a destination that is still unfolding.
And then there are the harder roads.
Driving the wrong way, under the influence.
A car accident in the middle of nowhere.
Being hit from behind near a river, convinced we were about to go in.
On the way to Pismo, putting diesel fuel into our car, thinking it was regular gas.
Not every road holds comfort—but every road holds truth.
EXERCISE
I invite you to try this for yourself.
Think about the roads you’ve traveled. The ones that shaped you. The ones that still live quietly in your body and memory.
Sometimes, reflecting on where we’ve been starts with remembering how we got there.
Remember, don’t act your age!
