Today, I sat down to map out my first day trip—something I haven’t done in a long time. As I started planning, it hit me how much there is to do, how many places there are to see. I realized I can’t rush through this. I can’t do an entire county in one day and expect to truly experience it, to really capture it the way I need to.
If I want to do this right—if I want to really absorb these places and take the time to get good pictures, to honor the memories—I’m going to have to slow down. Each stop will need its own time, its own hour to breathe. So I chose seven places for my first trip to Rock Hill, the place where this journey will begin.
It’s strange. Rock Hill feels like an odd place to start, yet it seems fitting. This trip, like so many of the others I will take, will be difficult. Sad, even. Because she’s not here with me. She’s not beside me, walking through these streets, laughing at the small joys we used to share. But I know that if I don’t do this—if I don’t walk these steps alone—I’ll never be able to let go. I’ll never be able to move on.
Sunday will mark the first real step in that journey. The first trip.
The first place on my list is Cherry Park. I remember looking at its green spaces and thinking how peaceful it looked. It’s a popular spot for locals, with trails weaving through the park. I’ll probably start the day here, walking the paths, taking in the morning air. Maybe it’ll give me some of the peace I need to carry me through the rest of the day. The park has art installations scattered throughout, and I can already picture how they’ll look in my photographs—pieces of calm amidst the chaos that has been my life lately.
From there, I’ll make my way to Winthrop University. It’s a historic place, with architecture that feels like it belongs to another time. The neoclassical buildings, the sprawling grounds—it’s the kind of place she would have loved. She had a way of making even the simplest of places feel like grand adventures. I can’t help but think of her as I will walk through the campus, passing Tillman Hall with its bell tower standing tall against the sky. It’s a reminder of how time keeps moving forward, even when we feel stuck in the past.
Next will be Glencairn Garden. I’m not sure how I’ll feel about this stop. The 11 acres of winding pathways and blooming flowers seem so serene, yet there’s an aching sadness in the thought of walking through a garden meant for two, by myself. She loved gardens almost as much as train depots. She would’ve marveled at the ponds, the small sculptures hidden among the greenery. I’ll have to take my time here, capturing the beauty around me while holding onto the bittersweet memories of what we once had.
After that, I’ll head to The Church of Our Saviour. Built in 1871, it’s a place full of history, much like the churches we visited together before. Gothic Revival architecture, stained-glass windows—it’s the kind of place that feels heavy with meaning. Maybe, standing there in the quiet of that church, I’ll find a moment of reflection. I’ll stand in the same silence that has been in my heart since she left, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll find a way to accept it.
The White House will be next on the list. A building that used to be a courthouse and post office, now just another piece of history. It’s a reminder that things change. People move on. Life moves forward, whether we’re ready or not. I’ll take pictures of its old architecture, but I know that it’ll serve as another reminder of how fleeting things are—how even the most solid structures, the most secure feelings, can crumble.
Then, there’s the Freedom Walkway. A place that commemorates local heroes of the civil rights movement. It’s humbling to think of the courage and strength that’s woven into this space, into the murals and stories it tells. Walking through the walkway, I’ll feel the weight of history, and it’ll make me think about my own path. I’ve been stuck in the past, clinging to what once was, while people throughout history have fought so hard to move forward. I need to learn how to do that—how to let go and walk my own path.
Finally, I’ll visit the Rock Hill Downtown Historic District. This area will be the heart of the trip, full of old 19th-century buildings, small-town charm, and places to stop for a quiet coffee. It’ll be a moment to breathe, to sit and reflect. Maybe it’ll be a chance to let the weight of the day settle in, to acknowledge the sadness that comes with making these steps without her by my side.
This trip, this day in Rock Hill, will be the first of many. But it’s more than just a day trip. It’s the beginning of something I have to do for myself. The beginning of facing the reality of what’s gone, and learning how to walk through it, step by step, until I can finally move on.