You don’t need proof to walk away—just a feeling that something isn’t right. After decades of travel and sailing with strangers, I’ve learned that the most important safety tool I carry is my own intuition. In this post, I share the personal safety standards I’ve practiced for years, and how they helped me navigate a recent situation that could have turned dangerous. If you travel solo or sail with new crews, this one's for you.

👉 Read: Personal Safety Standards for Travelers

She had been running for so long, chasing fleeting moments that promised escape but delivered emptiness. Each thrill pulled her further from herself, spinning her into a chaos she couldn’t control. But one night, at the edge of it all, a quiet voice rose within her, urging her to stop and find her center. Like a dancer mid-pirouette, she fixed her focus on something steady—a glimmer of hope buried deep inside. In that stillness, she chose to face the pain she had been fleeing, stepping onto the path of healing and toward a life built on intention, not escape.

Failure isn’t the opposite of success—it’s part of it. Each misstep, each setback, is a step forward, even when it doesn’t feel like it. The tiny, invisible improvements you make with every attempt are building something extraordinary. So if you’re afraid to start because you might fail, do it anyway. Fail. Get back up. And trust the process, knowing that every stumble is bringing you closer to where you want to be.

In the glow of daylight, I fought back. I invented stories on Mama Jean’s typewriter—stories where the monsters were defeated, where the lonely girl found her place. I typed until my fingers ached, until the room felt less dark, until the monsters went silent. For a while.

Years later, I realized the monsters were never gone; they simply changed form. As a child, they took shape in the shadows of a new bedroom. As an adult, they hid in the recesses of my memory, emerging during moments of doubt or fear. But back then, the typewriter gave me a tool to face them. Every clack of its keys was an act of defiance, a small victory against the unseen forces trying to pull me down.