Fog, Ferals, and Fine Point Pens: A Dark Academia Pilgrimage

There’s a specific kind of magic that lives at the intersection of stationary supplies and soul reclamation. It looks like a stack of sticker sheets. It smells like a Hampton Inn breakfast bar. And it feels like standing in a planner convention hall surrounded by midwestern normalcy while you, the emotionally ungovernable goth cryptid, lovingly adjust your cryptid-themed dashboard in a Traveler’s Notebook that somehow, somehow, chose you back.

This wasn’t just a trip.

This was a goddamn pilgrimage.

It started the way most sacred journeys do: in chaos. I packed like a feral archivist preparing to flee a collapsing archive. Nothing about it was organized, and yet, somehow, it was perfect. Inserts, pens, sticker kits, the holy relic known as Mosby (my emotional support weighted sloth), and at least nine chargers. All loaded into a bag that, despite the disarray, radiated a kind of intention. I wasn’t going unarmed.

This was my first solo trip in twenty years. First time being away from my eldest. First time parenting  my youngest solo while also packing for me, not just for him. The spiral potential was astronomical. But I prepped like I was going into battle. Because in some ways, I was.

Of course, I forgot to factor in the volatile betrayal known as child digestion. The offspring got carsick somewhere outside Eau Claire, and I spent a few precious minutes spiraling in the fluorescent hell of a Kwik Trip bathroom stall. Ten out of ten Midwest authenticity, zero regrets. Spouse retrieved the kiddo. I kept going.

That moment?

It was the split. The choice. The moment I drove toward myself instead of folding back into the familiar weight of guilt and obligation.

I crossed Wisconsin like a haunted librarian on a quest, plowing through toll roads (accidentally blowing one like the goth Bonnie to no one’s Clyde), fog-drenched interstates, and the steady drum of doubt. By the time I rolled into Troy, Ohio and tucked Mosby under my arm, Iya and Crystal were waiting. And so was the version of me I almost forgot existed.

Day two was the event. The moment. I woke up broken—but ready. Back tight, hydration low, sleep laughable. But I showed up. Black on black, cryptids at the ready, ready to plan like it was ritual. Normies swirled around Crystal and I, pastel and cheerful and precisely not my vibe, and I loved them for it. But I wasn’t here to blend in.

I was here to remember I existed.

And I did. Through sticker placement that felt like spellwork. Through photographs I’ll probably overthink but never regret. Through meals that were just nourishing enough to remind me that survival is a layered act. Through the planning, the quiet chatter, the caffeinated hum of being surrounded by people who got it, even if just for a day.

And then it happened.

The planner chose me.

A micro Traveler’s Notebook, early release, chocolate brown with a coffee emboss. They let me have it early because I drove in from Minnesota. I didn’t ask. I didn’t beg. I was seen, and that recognition alone cracked something open in me that I’m still gently sweeping up.

Inside? A reflection. Dashboards layered with cryptid art, photos of me, and of course Nexus. It wasn’t just a planner. It was a mirror. A shrine. A pocket-sized record of a version of me that is no longer surviving despite everything, but alongside it.

The drive home was quiet. Grounded.

Mosby on my lap. New tools in my bag. K.A. Merikan’s “Dickhead” streaming through the car until a spicy moment made me panic-shut Audible mid–gas station fill-up like a Victorian ghost startled by modern sin.

But I made it home.

Not just physically, but emotionally.

Back to Baron. Back to Nexus. Back to me.

Promptly fell asleep in the chair in the living room an hour later.

But I realized: this wasn’t just a trip about pens and paper.

It was proof.

Proof that fear doesn’t always mean stop.

Sometimes it means go now.

Sometimes it means leave the mess behind, drive through the fog, and find the women waiting in rooms you’ve never been to before.

I am no longer the girl left behind.

I am the woman who leaves.

Who arrives.

Who is chosen.

And I’ll be damned if I don’t plan the whole thing in a micro notebook that knows my name.