He Rang Me at 2 AM: “Your Card Was Declined at the Hotel – Wire Me $9,000 Right Now or Face the Consequences…”

The city becomes small beneath me. Houses look like toys. Cars look like ants.

Everything becomes insignificant from this height. The clouds wrap around us. Everything becomes white.

Then we break through the cloud layer and the infinitely blue sky appears. The sun shines with an intensity that hurts the eyes.

I close the shade halfway and settle into my seat. I smile. I am flying. I am going towards something new. I am alive.

The flight lasts 4 hours. I read a magazine, I drink orange juice, I look out the window.

I think about everything that has happened in the last 3 weeks. I think about the call at 2:00 in the morning that changed everything.

I think about the decision I made. I think about the pain, the tears, the confrontation. I think about the liberation.

We arrive in Santa Fe at midday. The airport is small, welcoming. I walk out with my suitcase.

The heat hits me immediately. It is a dry heat, different from the city.

It smells of sage brush, of mountains, of something ancient and deep. There is a man with a sign that says the name of the tour company.

I approach him. He welcomes me with a huge smile. There are six other people waiting: all seniors, all traveling alone, all with that same expression of excitement mixed with nervousness.

We get into a van. The guide introduces himself. His name is Adrien. He is about 50. Kind face, calm voice.

He tells us about Santa Fe. As we drive toward the hotel, he talks about the Pueblo history, the food, the traditions kept alive.

The hotel is beautiful: adobe style with a central courtyard full of flowers. My room is small but perfect.

It has a comfortable bed, a clean bathroom, a window looking out onto the courtyard. I unpack my suitcase calmly. I hang my clothes. I arrange my shoes.

I mark my territory. That afternoon we have the first group meeting.

We sit in the hotel courtyard. Adrienne explains the itinerary for the next 10 days.

Each day sounds better than the last: ruins, canyons, markets, cooking classes, art workshops. The other travelers introduce themselves.

There is a woman named Stella. She is 68, from Chicago. Just widowed a year ago. This is her first trip alone.

There is a man named Victor. He is 75, from Seattle. Says he always wanted to see the Southwest, but his wife preferred the beach.

There is a woman named Margaret. She is 70, from Boston. Never married, dedicated her life to caring for her elderly parents.

Both died last year. Now she is discovering who she is without them. Each story is different, but they all have something in common.

We are all here looking for something. We are all here trying to live.

When my turn comes, I introduce myself. “I am Eleanor. I am 72 years old. I am from the city.”

“I am a widow. I have a son and a granddaughter.” “And I am here because I decided my life belongs to me.”

I say no more. I don’t need to say more. Everyone nods as if they understood perfectly, as if everyone had their own version of my story.

That night we dine together at a restaurant on the plaza. We try tamales, green chile stew, blue corn enchiladas.

Everything is delicious. Everything is new. Everything is an adventure. I laugh more at that dinner than I have laughed in months, maybe in years.

The following days pass in a beautiful mix of experiences. We visit Bandelier National Monument.

We climb the wooden ladders to the ancient cave dwellings. From up there, I see the whole canyon. I see mountains stretching as far as the eye can see.

I feel the wind on my face. I feel the sun on my skin. I feel small but also immense.

Adrien tells us about the ancestral Puebloans, about their advanced civilization. About how they built this city in the canyon nearly a thousand years ago.

I like that idea of circular time. Nothing really ends. Everything transforms.

I am transforming too. I am returning to myself.

We visit Taos Pueblo. The adobe structures are more impressive than I imagined: brown, massive, frozen in time against the blue sky.

We see the Rio Grande Gorge. The water looks like a ribbon far below.

I laugh like a child, feeling the vertigo and the thrill. Stella takes a picture of me. I look happy.

We visit artisan workshops. We see how they make pottery, polishing the black clay until it shines like glass.

We see how they weave rugs on looms. I buy gifts for Mia, for Julian, for myself.

I buy a hand-carved wooden owl. It is painted with impossible colors: turquoise, pink, and yellow.

The artisan tells me the owl represents wisdom. It represents seeing in the dark.

I hold it carefully. This owl is mine. This owl is me.

We take the traditional cooking class. We learn to make red chili sauce.

It has so many ingredients. Each one must be roasted, ground, mixed at the exact moment.

The cook tells us the sauce is like life: complicated, requires patience. But the result is worth every second of effort.

We spend the evenings on the plaza. We sit on the benches under the trees.

We watch families walking. We watch children running. We watch couples in love. We watch life in all its splendor.

One night, Margaret tells me her full story. She tells me how she dedicated 40 years to caring for her parents.

How she never had children because there was no time. How when they died, she felt lost, empty, without purpose.

“But then I realized something,” she tells me. “I realized I was still alive. I still had time. I could still do things.”

“This is my fifth trip in 2 years,” she says with pride. “And every trip gives me back a piece of myself, a piece I thought was lost forever.”

I hug her. I cry on her shoulder. She cries on mine. We don’t need words. We understand.

We understand what it is to recover oneself. We understand what it is to be reborn after having been dead in life.

The last days of the trip go by too fast. We visit the Loretto Chapel with its miraculous staircase.

It has no center support. It has survived for over a century. I put my hand on the wood and feel the smooth texture.

I feel the faith holding it up. I think I am going to survive too. I am going to keep standing.

The last night we have a farewell dinner. We all share what this trip meant to us.

Victor says he found joy again. Stella says she found courage. Margaret says she found community.

When my turn comes, I stand up. “I found Eleanor,” I say.

“I found the woman I had forgotten existed.” “I found the woman who has a right to be happy. And I am not going to lose her again.”

Everyone applauds; some cry. Adrienne tells us we are his favorite group of the year.

The day of return I arrive at the airport loaded with souvenirs, gifts, photos. My suitcase weighs more, but I feel lighter.

The flight back I spend looking at the photos on my camera. There are the ruins against the sky, the gorge bridge, the markets full of color.

There is a photo of me in front of the adobe church. I look happy. I look complete. I look like me.

I land at the airport at sunset. I get my bag and go out to the arrivals area.

There is Julian and next to him is Mia, both holding balloons that say “Welcome home.” I run toward them.

The three of us hug. It is a long, tight, real hug.

Mia tells me I look radiant. Julian tells me I look 10 years younger. I tell them I feel reborn.

In the car on the way home, I tell them everything. I show them photos. I talk about my new friends.

I talk about the places I saw. I talk about the Eleanor I rediscovered.

They take me to my apartment. Julian carries my suitcase all the way up.

Mia opens the windows to let in fresh air. Both stay for a while.

We drink tea. We eat the Biscochito anise cookies I brought from Santa Fe. We talk, we laugh, we are family.

Before leaving, Julian reminds me dinner is this Saturday. “At my house at 7:00, Mom. You don’t have to bring anything. Just you.”

“I will be there, Julian. I promise.” They leave and I stay alone in my apartment.

But this loneliness is different. It isn’t emptiness; it is fullness. It is peace. It is freedom.

I unpack slowly. I take out my dirty clothes. I take out the gifts.

I take out the wooden owl and put it on my nightstand next to Arthur’s photo. They look good together: the past and the present.

I shower and put on my pajamas. I get into bed. I close my eyes and think about everything that has happened since that call at 2:00 in the morning.

I think about the pain. I think about the decision. I think about the transformation.

I think about the Eleanor I was: the one who said yes to everything. The one who sacrificed without limit.