You Met Me in the Blue Mountains

by Andy Beth Miller

YOU MET ME IN THE BLUE MOUNTAINS

Reading about the Blue Mountains was spellbinding. Every article promised grandeur, epic cliffs, eucalyptus forests painted in a blue haze, waterfalls framed by rainbows. At that time in my life, I wanted that kind of largeness. I thought I needed something cinematic to wipe away an unsung hurt. So, I booked a one‑way ticket and stepped onto an overnight flight with nothing but a passport, a pair of boots, and a heart I no longer trusted.

I had just walked through the worst kind of heartbreak. A betrayal that blasted me apart, sent shrapnel ricocheting through every part of who I thought I was. It left me hollowed. The sadness lived in my body like an illness. My heart didn’t feel broken; it felt shattered. Jagged. Like the shards of a cracked ceramic bowl.

I had done the work. A year of therapy. A year of staying put when all I wanted was to run. I waited until forward motion came not from escape, but from choosing joy again. I sold almost everything I owned except what fit in a small backpack, and I set out. Not to find myself (that phrase always made me cringe), but to meet myself again. Somewhere new. Somewhere I could become something else.

And that’s when I met you.

You had this steady, quiet strength I didn’t know how to be around at first. I didn’t feel capable of sustaining a relationship of any kind. Not with others, not even with myself. I didn’t even feel human. I felt feral.

Touch felt dangerous. Softness, threatening. I’d gone so long without either that the idea of being seen, being held, felt unbearable. To survive, I hardened myself into someone—something I no longer recognized. I feared tenderness might only splinter me further. But you were not deterred. More than that, you saw past the ugly bits. Past the animal I had become for lack of care. You took in my broken heart, my bruised body, and you opened your arms. Not grandly, not forcefully—just a wordless invitation to come, to rest.

And I did. For the first time since the great divide, I slept soundly and awoke without immediately desiring to escape back to unconscious reverie.

Graciously, you let me start the day slow. Once I was ready, you led me by the hand to the edge of the vast Aussie expanse I had only ever imagined. You let me stand in awe, unhurried, not breaking the sacred silence with unnecessary speech. You understood this underrated, rare gift of undisturbed stillness.

And then, to my surprise, you released my hand.

You turned on your heels, slowly, holding my gaze and assuring me you’d be back. But this part—this first walk into the wild—was something I needed to do alone.

I didn’t understand. It felt abrupt. Cruel, even.

But now I see it for what it was. The most loving, wise, clear-eyed gesture you could’ve made. You knew my biggest fear was going on without you. So you brought me gently to that brink. And in doing so, you showed me that I could.

I watched you walk away, fear rising like a tide inside me. It threatened to swallow me whole. But I remembered your embrace the night before, how safe it had felt. How steady. So I turned my face toward the vast green valleys and cliffs that waited ahead.

I started walking.

Step by trembling step, fear tried to bloom, but pride pushed me forward. I climbed the Golden Stairs. Moss-strewn paths descended into green shadow, each step uneven, slick with dew. My thighs burned, but I kept moving, counting breaths. At the valley floor, I followed Federal Pass, gum leaves crunching beneath my boots. Sunlight filtered through the canopy in pale shafts, and with each step, something loosened inside my chest.

I stood before the Three Sisters, ancient and unmoved. I broke down in tears at the sheer beauty of Bridal Veil Falls, noting the irony of its name. As I stared at the cascading torrent, spilling in a thin white ribbon over dark rock, words left me. Its roar covered any sound I might have made anyway, and as I sat there in stunned silence, I let the tears fall shamelessly.

Somewhere near the base of that canyon, there may or may not be a wedding ring.

By the time I retraced my path, the Aussie sun had dipped behind the plateau. My muscles were burning, and my limbs were trembling, but something had awakened within me, a kind of renewed energy. The kind that comes not from rest, but from meeting yourself in your own strength.

At the trailhead, I found you seated patiently on the hood of your car, a book in hand, legs casually crossed. You took one look at me and saw the telltale signs of salt now dried on my cheeks. Without a word, you opened the passenger door and once again took me in and away.

You brought me home. Fed me. Ran a warm bath. And when you held me again, this time I let myself burrow deeper. You trailed your fingers along my brow, kissed the spot they had touched, and said, “Rest.”

So I did.

The next morning, I woke to magpies singing outside the window and the strange sensation of wanting the day. My legs ached, but my heartbeat was steady, spacious even. In the kitchen, you poured coffee, then slid a map across the table. “Plenty more tracks,” you said. “No hurry.”

It was in that moment that I realized your gift.

This was not a sweeping rescue, only patient company and the permission to walk on, at my own pace, on my own strength—beloved.

You saw the feral edges, and you made room for them. You let the land do its quiet work, then held me while the healing settled in.

You met me when I felt small and unlovely. You showed me endurance is not the same as hardness, and softness can stand on its own two feet.

I carry you now, your memory tucked between the pages of every map I unfold. When fear rises, I remember the hush my heart found beneath those tall trees, and the water at Bridal Veil falling gently, but fiercely.

I walk lighter today because you let go of my hand and trusted I would find my own way forward.

Once, you reminded me of something I had almost forgotten:

That tenderness still exists.

That safe love, steady love, is real.

And that I am worthy of both.

Yes, even me.

ANDY BETH MILLER

Andy Beth Miller is a travel journalist with over 20 years of experience writing for both print and digital publications. She has spent the last six years slowly traveling full-time, just her and her wee backpack, reporting firsthand from dozens of countries across Europe and the Pacific.

She has also served as editor-in-chief of a New York-based trade publication, worked as a senior copy editor for multiple lifestyle titles, and continues to work as a freelance book editor and communications consultant in her (rare) spare time.

She thinks of herself as a “hydroponic human,” and feels incredibly blessed to be able to see the world as she works en route. There are so many beautiful places to visit, lessons to learn, and stories to share.