What is your favorite place to go in your city?

My favorite place in the city is the stretch of the Cherry Creek Trail that leads straight to the Barnes & Noble at the Cherry Creek Shopping Center. It’s my secret side quest—my personal pilgrimage from Mildly Overstimulated Mom to Woman Briefly Left Alone With Her Thoughts. Honestly, at this point it feels less like a walk and more like a soul evacuation drill.
The trail itself is one of the only places where my brain remembers I have a body attached. Something about the Colorado air resets me. Maybe it’s the altitude. Maybe it’s the fact that the sky here looks like a painter got carried away. Maybe it’s just that no one is tugging on my shirt yelling, “Mooooom, he bewitched my snack!” The trees rustle in that gentle, “You’re doing great, sweetie” kind of way—not in a “Demogorgon is behind you” way. Bless you, Colorado foliage.
People always ask why I walk instead of just driving. It’s simple: the walk is the decompression chamber. If I go straight from my house to the bookstore, I’m still carrying leftover toddler chaos static in my bloodstream. But on the trail, step by step, I shed it. The crushed Goldfish crumbs in my pocket? Symbolic shedding. The stress of a magical tantrum? Sweated out. By the halfway mark I’m practically floating like a calm-budget Gandalf.
And then—Barnes & Noble. The moment that automatic door whooshes open, I instantly become a better person. Kinder. Wiser. Less likely to yell, “Stop licking the furniture!” at anyone. It’s like walking into a temple where the holy relics are fresh hardcovers and discounted journals that I absolutely do not need but will buy anyway.
There’s something about bookstores—this one in particular—that hits me right in the nostalgic center of my nerd soul. The smell of paper. The quiet hum of other readers pretending they don’t eavesdrop. The café with drinks that taste better simply because someone else made them. And the aisles… those beautiful aisles. I can wander them without worrying that a child will magically combust something. The worst thing that happens there is I lose track of time and suddenly have 11 books in my arms like a dragon counting gold.
My husband calls this whole ritual “Monica’s Reset Route.” He says it with that supportive-but-please-come-home-before-dinner tone, the same one he uses when his servers go down at work. He swears I come back looking like someone cast a high-level Calm Emotions spell on me. He’s not wrong. Nothing reboots my brain quite like being surrounded by stories.
And yes, I walk it in winter. I’m not some delicate wildflower. I live in Colorado. We consider snow a personality trait. Plus, winter walks make me feel like I’m the determined heroine in an early-2000s fantasy movie—cloak billowing, breath fogging, dramatic music swelling—except instead of battling an ancient evil, I’m just power-walking toward a warm building that sells pastries and romance novels. Honestly, same level of heroism.
Sometimes at the bookstore café, I sip my chai latte and actually get a moment to think. I’ll jot notes for the TV show I keep insisting I’ll write someday. Other times I stare at the window like a Victorian woman recovering from “nerves.” Occasionally I’ll pep-talk myself with lines like, “Monica, you can absolutely finish a book. Plenty of people do. It’s not like summoning a dragon.” People glance at me, but Denver is full of characters. I rank maybe a six out of ten on the local weird scale.
By the time I walk back home, I feel like someone ran a quiet software update on my entire personality. I return to my wizard husband, my three tiny spellcasters, and Clark the cat—who always greets me with a dramatic, “You were gone for ages,” even if it hasn’t even been an hour. He’s very committed to the role of Abandoned Familiar.
So yes. The Cherry Creek Trail to Barnes & Noble. That is my place. My pocket universe. The stretch of earth where I stop being Simply Hanging On and start being Monica Again. A tiny pilgrimage from chaos to calm, powered by steps, stories, and the hope that when I get home… no one is floating.






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