Dysfunctional Dynamics

Being a travel blogger was exciting but it wasn't always as glamorous as Sabrina Stockholm made it look.

Her Instagram was curated: golden-hour sunsets, vintage coffee shops, and captions that sounded both enlightened and effortlessly chill. But behind the scenes, her reality was Wi-Fi passwords scrawled on napkins, half-charged devices, and a constantly shifting map of side gigs that kept her afloat.

She wrote blog posts for eco-retreats for travel gurus. She ghostwrote wellness content for influencers who lived off Adderall and sarcasm. When things got tight, she edited website bios or reviewed off-brand luggage on Amazon for fifty bucks a post. It was a cool job. It was freedom. Sort of.

She'd been on the road for eight months when the real weirdos started showing up.

The first was O'Neil—a smooth-talking drifter she met at a roadside casino in Nevada while looking for free Wi-Fi and a coffee refill. He said he used to build fences. Said he was "rebuilding his life." He had tattoos, a buzzcut, and a way of looking at her like he was trying to memorize her face.

"You travel alone?" he asked.

Sabrina, never one to reveal more than necessary, lied. "No. My friend's inside."

But when he offered her a ride to Albuquerque, she hesitated—just long enough to say yes. It was hot. She was tired. The bus wasn't coming for another four hours.

They drove for a few hours. He played 90s R&B. Talked about starting over. Then, he turned off the highway.

"I just gotta check something at a job site. Won't take long."

The "job site" turned out to be a dusty, abandoned patch of desert with a rusted-out trailer and no signal. She realized, too late, there was no work here. No tools. Just open land and O'Neil watching her too closely.

Her pulse started to crawl up her neck.

"I should get back on the road," she said, careful not to sound scared. "My friend's expecting me."

He didn't argue. But he didn't move either.

So she smiled, complimented his playlist, and asked if he'd show her how to siphon gas—"just in case I ever break down." He liked that. Liked being seen as useful.

That's how she got him to drive her back to the main road.

She didn't run. She didn't scream. She just waited. Then walked away without looking back.

The second weirdo she met came a week later. Brad was a political extremist who listed his rental house on a home-sharing app. He needed a house-sitter. Someone to water plants, feed his cat, and "hold down the energetic center of the space."

At first, Brad seemed harmless. He offered her kombucha, complimented her blog, and talked about masculine energy like it was an endangered species.

On night three, he leaned in too close while showing her how to burn sage "correctly."

On night five, he made his move. She dodged it. Politely.

On night six, he stopped being polite. "You flirted. Don't act above it now," he said, standing in the hallway shirtless with a smirk.

She spent the rest of the week locking her door and sleeping with a Swiss Army knife under her pillow.

By the end of that week, she was done.

Done with flaky gigs. Done with men who thought kindness was consent. Done with the endless drifting. Her bank account was screaming, and so was her intuition.

That's when she saw it.

A nanny ad.
"Loving family of five seeks live-in caregiver. Private room. Weekly pay. Must be warm, reliable, and good with children."

There was a photo. A smiling couple. Five kids. Three dogs. A pool house with a garden. It looked normal. Stable. Quiet.

After everything, that was all she wanted.

Just one place where she could exhale.