When I took a solo road trip in a camper van, I realized I'm a lesbian. I then decided to end my marriage with my loving husband.

• I decided to take a solo road trip in a camper van and started in San Diego.
• During my journey, I got to read, journal, and do yoga in the dirt.

"You're not gay; you just hate men."

Our marriage counselor stated it so simply — like a fact laid out in plain sight for everyone to see, but me. For weeks, I couldn't get her statement out of my mind. It circled and swirled around my body like an itchy sweater I just wanted to get off me but couldn't.

My husband and I quit marriage counseling after that and decided to take some space from each other — from our marriage. It felt strange to call it a separation because we still loved each other and had no doubt we'd eventually figure it all out and come back together, stronger than ever.

I bought a newly renovated Sprinter van and booked a one-way ticket to San Diego, where I would pick the van up and take a week or two to travel the open road. Just me, myself, and that itchy sweater. What I discovered about myself on that solo trip brought my marriage to an end for good.

I started my solo van-life journey in San Diego

Traveling by myself wasn't new to me or to our marriage. Over the course of our 10-year relationship, I often booked myself a few days in a sunny location and came back refreshed and rejuvenated, ready to tackle whatever life threw at me next. My now-ex-husband was always supportive and trusted that I knew how to take care of my needs.

But suddenly I felt stuck in my home, in my marriage, in my body, in my work, and in my life. I tried to cope, I tried counseling, I tried picking up countless new hobbies, I tried medication, and then, I tried to end my life.

It didn't work. Nothing worked. And then, with multiple medications and therapy appointments scheduled twice a week, I boarded a plane to San Diego, picked up my van, and drove.

I spent the first night parked alongside the Pacific Coast Highway, overlooking the ocean. It was a sleepless night filled with equal parts excitement and fear. I was finally embarking on a journey that once only lived within the confinements of Pinterest and Instagram, but at what cost? My safety? My marriage? Both?

The next morning, I woke up to the sound of waves crashing onto the beach on one side, cars whooshing past the van on the other, and a parking ticket on my windshield. I boiled some water on the stovetop and scooped a heaping tablespoon of instant coffee into my new mug. I spent the rest of the morning journaling and reading with my door open and my feet propped up. It was perfect.

"You're not gay; you just hate men," I wrote in my journal.

There it was again — that itchy sweater.

I suppressed that itch again. A week had passed, and I was finally feeling like I was getting the hang of this van-life thing. I spent most of my days in remote locations, off the beaten path, with just enough cell service to Zoom my therapist. I spent my days journaling, reading, and doing yoga on the dirt.

Along my journey back home, I kept making "just one more detour," and eventually extended my trip by another week.

It wasn't until the second week in the depths of a forest somewhere in Arizona that I started to ask myself the tough questions

Do I hate men? Or am I gay?

I started going back through the timeline of my life and every relationship I had ever experienced. There was my first high-school boyfriend who I lost my virginity to. There was my high-school sweetheart, the Ivy League-destined all-star athlete who would occasionally leave me bruised and bloodied behind closed doors. That one lasted for years. Then there were the college boyfriends: The ones who only called when they were drunk or who I only slept with when I was drunk, the one who gave me an STI, and the one who gave me my first orgasm.

And then there was her.

We met while I was bartending during graduate school and became fast friends. Eventually, we became more than friends — much more. I chose to ignore it.

It started with the occasional drunken make-out session. Our relationship quickly progressed to more than the occasional make-out session. Eventually, she moved in next door. We worked, traveled, and spent much of our free time together. I was always a willing participant, but over time, it all became too much for me. I became dismissive and avoidant. I then found a reason to end our friendship. She eventually moved out, and we both moved onto our different career paths and lives.

I spent a few days in my van, reliving these memories, dissecting each one, and putting them all back together under a very different lens. Had I been gay all along?

I typed into Google: "How to know if you're gay?" As I sit here today, I can say with confidence that if you're needing to Google "how to know if you're gay," well, you're probably gay.

I spent the last half of my trip shedding more tears than I knew were humanly possible. I was sad and mad and confused. Why did it take me so long? How did I miss all the signs? Hindsight is always 20/20, and looking back for answers is the easy part. Now, it was time for the real hard part: Going back home to tell the husband I loved that I was gay.