It was my 22-year-old daughter’s first Vrbo reservation.
With no hotels near the half Ironman site, renting a small house was the norm. She’d booked it months earlier. But as our eight-hour drive was drawing to a close and the access code still hadn’t arrived, it became clear we’d been scammed.
Natalie called customer service. Thankfully, a real human answered. His name was Mohamed.
After trying unsuccessfully to reach the owner, he said gently, “I recommend you cancel the reservation and find a new one.”
“But here’s the problem,” my daughter said, trying to hold it together. “I have a race on Sunday. Thousands of athletes are coming. Everything is sold out.”
“Hold, please,” Mohamed said. “Let me look.”
She leaned toward me and whispered through tears, “I feel like I’ve failed.”
“This is a small blip in the plan,” I told Natalie, with far more conviction than I felt. “You’ve worked too hard to let this derail everything. We’ll figure it out.”
Most places with availability were at least fifty miles away…
except one.
“A small roadside motel appears to have one room available,” Mohamed said. “I can’t make the reservation for you, but I can stay on the phone with you while you call.”
After a pause, he added, “I will not leave you stranded.”
Natalie dialed the number and quickly learned she was speaking to the owner, Frank.
“I know this is a long shot,” she said, hopeful, “but do you have any availability?”
“We just had a cancellation,” Frank replied.
Tears came.
“I’m sorry,” she said, gathering herself. “I’m in the race on Sunday, and my rental just fell through.”
“I’ve been hosting participants for this race for ten years,” Frank shared. “I get it. Come on. I’ve got a place for you.”
That little rustic room wasn’t fancy. But it was close to the race site. It was quiet. It was a place to rest when we were exhausted and far from home.
And it was enough.
The most memorable December weekend unfolded from there.
Natalie crossed the finish line in five hours, nine minutes, strong and smiling. Yes, she trained her heart out—but when we needed help, real people showed up.
This is the energy I’m carrying into 2026.
Mohamed’s kindness.
Frank’s understanding.
My daughter’s perseverance.
A mother’s belief.
May we all be met when we’re far from home.
May we become the ones who stay on the line.
And may we remember how much can change when we refuse to leave one another stranded.
My hand in yours,
Rachel
When I recently shared this story on Substack, something beautiful happened. It took on a life of its own, spreading further than I ever expected, and readers began responding with their own commitments to collective care.
“‘I will not leave you stranded.’ So much depends on our feelings of safety. May we be a safe place and a safe interaction for others in 2026.” L.B.
“‘I will not leave you stranded’ has become my new year’s growth plan. This year will be about finding people who need to be cared for. I’m stocking up my car with snacks and drinks to give out on intersection corners. The list will grow as I grow.” R.F.
“Starting in 2026, I will pledge to myself that I will ‘stay on the line’ for my friends and for strangers.” M.W.
“We know connection and community are what we need, but we’re exhausted and not sure how to create more of it. ‘I will not leave you stranded’ is what I needed to read to help guide me through this time.” K.A.
The man who tried to deceive Natalie did not win.
Kindness did.
(And for those who love small signs of grace: our room number was 143—which means I love you.)
Coming up in Rachel’s Treehouse on Substack this winter… I’ll be sharing guidance and nourishment for transitional seasons of life — parenting from afar, grief, and midlife hormonal changes — and gentle ways of staying human when everything feels tender, hard, and unfamiliar. We’ll be talking about how to be kind to ourselves and each other in an unsteady world.
If you ever feel like joining me there, the ladder is always down – and my essays come straight to your email inbox.
