When the World Stopped, I Wrote: A Memoir, a Missed Train, and a New Beginning

I Never Made It to Quebec City

In March of 2020, I was planning a solo writing retreat.

I had it all mapped out: train tickets to Quebec City, a quiet boutique hotel with a view of cobblestone streets, a stack of notebooks, and a heart full of intention. I wasn’t running away from anything; I was running toward something: stillness, solitude, and a blank page. I was going to disconnect from the internet and the rest of the world so I could finally finish writing the book that I had started two years prior. Something that had been living in me for years had to come out.

That book became my memoir.

But the trip? It never happened. We all know why.

The world shut down just days before I was set to leave. Transit halted. Plans dissolved. I unpacked my suitcase and quietly tucked my retreat dreams away with it.

Instead of café mornings and long, handwritten afternoons, I stayed home. I adjusted to the disorientation of the pandemic like everyone else. And still I wrote. I wrote in the quiet of early mornings and in the chaos of uncertain days. I wrote with grief in my chest and hope on the horizon. I wrote, not in Quebec City, but in the corners of my own home: in my bed, on my couch, in my backyard while my children played.

And I learned something valuable: Retreat isn’t a place. It’s a permission slip.

A Retreat Can Begin Anywhere

You don’t need a passport to find your voice. You just need a moment to listen to it.

If you've ever longed for the space to write, rest, and just be, this is for you.

And if you ever make it to Quebec City… write something beautiful for both of us.

With warmth,

Sharla