Everything Will Be Okay—Just Breathe

The most frightening moment of my life became one of the most healing

On the side of the Transcanada Highway somewhere in the prairies. 2010

Many years ago, in 2010, I biked from Halifax to Vancouver—alone. This journey laid the foundation for everything I’ve become over the last fifteen years. Many lessons were learned that I still reflect on to this day. This is one of them.

By this point, I had been biking for about two months. I’d already passed through the Maritimes, followed the St. Lawrence, and journeyed through the Canadian Shield. Now I was deep into the Prairies—a stretch I thought would be easier, but I was heading west, directly into the headwind.

It was just past lunch, and I had stopped at a gas station just west of Moose Jaw. Someone mentioned there might be rain later, but I felt confident I could reach Caronport before it hit. Anyone who’s been through that part of Canada knows how flat and expansive it is. Endless fields of yellow and green, the occasional abandoned farmhouse, the odd clump of trees—a whole lot of nothing.

It was a sunny July afternoon, but far in the distance, I could see dark clouds forming. I told myself, "I’ll make it to Caronport before they catch me."

I had never experienced a prairie storm before. I didn’t realize how fast and harsh the weather could shift. It started raining lightly, and at first, it was refreshing. After six or seven hours of riding, the cool droplets were a gift. But the rain grew heavier, and I stopped to put on my rain gear, just as I had done many times before.

Almost immediately, everything changed. Those clouds that seemed so far off were now directly overhead. The skies opened. Rain pounded down, and the wind roared. Still 15 to 20 kilometers away, I had no shelter, no real plan—just keep pedaling.

Then came the most frightening experience of my life.

Within moments, the ditches were flooded, and the wind was so strong I could barely stay upright. Visibility dropped to almost nothing. I couldn’t see five feet in front of me—which meant the transport trucks speeding by probably couldn’t see me either.

The sky lit up with lightning, cracking like gunshots all around me. The thunder was deafening. Trucks kept coming, inches away. I truly believed I was going to die that day. But something quiet stirred inside me—a whisper: "Everything will be okay. Just keep going. Breathe."

For 20 to 30 minutes, I kept going. White-knuckled. Pushed back and forth by the wind. And then, as suddenly as it had started, it stopped.

I was soaked, shaking, and in a kind of shock. But I was alive. I didn’t die on that highway. I kept going. All I wanted was a beer to calm my nerves.

Just ahead, I saw a van pulled over. As I approached, the window rolled down. A man asked, "Are you okay? We saw you biking in the storm and wanted to make sure you made it. Where are you staying tonight?"

"Probably just in a field near Caronport," I replied.

"You’re soaked. Your stuff must be drenched. We live nearby. Want to come dry off and stay the night?"

Inside the van were his wife and several kids. My trust issues flared, but I looked in his eyes and said yes. He gave me directions, and I continued—on a flip phone, no GPS, just his words.

It took another 30 minutes to reach his home. I was soaked through, but the sun was shining. I was greeted with a towel, a change of clothes, and warmth.

As I took off my gear, I asked what he did for a living.

"I’m a Pentecostal pastor," he said.

My heart sank.

As a child, a Pentecostal pastor had taught me how religion could be wielded with hatred. That moment had turned me away from all spiritual paths. But this man looked at me—tattooed, road-worn, soaked—and didn’t judge.

He simply said, "You must be hungry. Let us get you some food."

That night became a moment of reconnection. They didn’t preach. We shared a meal, watched a movie, and just existed in each other's company. They needed adult conversation, and I needed presence.

The next morning, they prepared a hearty breakfast. I set off again, feeling changed. Something in me had softened. Something deeper stirred. That night, I never did have that beer.

This was one of many moments on that journey that completely shifted who I am. A reminder of surrender. Of trust. And of how even the fiercest storms sometimes lead us home.

🌀 Red Shanti | redshanti.com
Writer, wellness guide, and yoga-based teacher of presence and rhythm.

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