A Wake for All the Versions Before

Thank you for being here.

Or maybe, more honestly, thank me, for finally showing up. For standing still long enough to say goodbye.

This isn’t a funeral in the traditional sense.

No casket. No headstone. No obituary clipped out and saved.

This is a wake for every version of myself I’ve lived, loved, and quietly let go of.

Some of them died loudly.

Some slipped away unnoticed.

Some fought for their life until the end.

Some I buried too soon.

And some, I’ll admit, I still visit in the quiet. I whisper, I’m sorry, or thank you, or I didn’t know any better.Sometimes I say nothing at all.

Let’s begin with the child.

The one who believed love had to be earned. The one who learned how to read a room, how to shape shift into safety, how to swallow feelings like pills without water. That kid was smart. Sensitive. Always performing, never asking.

They died slowly, over many years.

But they taught me how to survive.

Rest easy, little one. You were never too much. You were always enough.

Next, we remember the one who mistook suffering for identity.

The poet. The romantic. The chaos lover.

They clung to sadness like a lifeline, convinced it made them deeper, more worthy, more real.

They believed pain was the price of success.

God, they felt everything.

They hurt, beautifully.

But their time is over now.

And I’m grateful.

But I’ll never forget the art they created from grief.

Then there was the version of me who tried so hard to be perfect.

The one who apologized just for existing, who overworked, overperformed, smiled until his cheeks cracked.

He feared being found out

for being gay, for being soft, for being human.

I wore him like armor in rooms where I didn’t feel safe.

He got me through.

But I no longer need to be unbreakable.

I’d rather be free.

And then, of course, there are the selves I gave away in love.

The ones who quieted their needs. Shrunk their edges. Softened their truths so someone else could feel more comfortable.

They meant well.

They thought love meant disappearing.

But they faded so fully I almost didn’t notice.

I notice now.

There are more.

The drunk.

The forgiver.

The sponge who soaked up blame just to keep the peace.

The boy who held it in until it exploded.

The man who swore he was fine.

The artist who forgot he was allowed to make things just for the joy of it.

The friend who stopped reaching out because he couldn’t stand his own reflection.

They all lived here once.

They all mattered.

And they all had to go so I could stay.

So tonight, I light a candle for each.

And I say…

Thank you for getting me this far.

Thank you for doing what you could with what you had.

Thank you for holding on, even when it hurt.

I won’t romanticize you.

But I won’t erase you either.

You made me.

And now, I go on without you.

Not because I didn’t love you,

But because I finally love myself more.

To all the versions of me that came before:

Rest well.

Rest proud.

Your time is done.

And to the me who’s still becoming, half built, half broken, but wide awake.

Welcome to the rest of your life.

Ojai, oh-hi

Today I started the day slow. no plan, no pressure. Just Ojai. That soft little town tucked into the hills like it’s hiding something sacred. I got a coffee and let myself wander. Let the sun warm me up. Let the quiet pull me in.

I stopped at a country market where a pair of baby turkeys greeted me like old friends. Inside, I ended up talking with the cashier about my California road so far. She asked where I’d been, smiled when I told her, and wished me luck in that way strangers do when they know you’re searching for something, even if they don’t ask what.

Next, I popped into a thrift shop and found a hat I didn’t know I needed until it was already mine. At the register, I picked up a bag to carry the day’s small unknowns, but the cashier stopped me. Said, “Here,” and handed me a tote from a local market. Just gave it to me. No reason, just kindness. And I don’t know. Maybe it was the timing, or maybe I was feeling cracked open already… but it made me want to cry a little.

After that, I wandered into a crystal shop. The kind of place that hums. The woman behind the counter had a calming energy, like she knew what to say and what not to. I told her more than I expected to. And as we stood there casually chatting and sharing stories a door opened and closed to an empty room on the other side of the store, another customer began to cry, something deep breaking loose in real time. We didn’t stare. We didn’t speak really. Just bore witness together. Quietly. Reverently. She had an experience that day no one could have predicted, one that she knows has changed her life.

I kept walking. Let the town hold me for a little while longer. Let the day shape itself without asking what it was supposed to be. On the drive home, I took the long way, curved around the hills and stopped at a pull-off above Lake Casitas. The light was brilliant and everything looked golden, the whole landscape had exhaled. And maybe I did too.

Now I’m back at the beach, sand in my shoes, salt in the air. Thinking about how sometimes you don’t need an itinerary. You just need space. Room to follow your own wonder. A good hat, a free tote, a stranger’s blessing. And a few hours of feeling like the world might still be kind.

Hey Dylan, it’s me Dylan

It’s such a strange feeling, reintroducing myself to life in the neon lights, but sober this time.

The bars, the clubs, the events. They’re all still here. The same neon nights and crowded rooms. But I’m not here to throw away the life I’ve been given again. I’m showing up differently now. The lens I get to look through has changed. The way I feel things, see things. It’s all different.

I used to tell myself I was an anxious person. That I had social anxiety. That I couldn’t function in crowds unless I was on duty or on the clock. Same story with dancing. I used to swear I couldn’t unless I was drinking.

There are so many of these stories I told myself so often, they became my truths. And once something becomes your truth, it feels permanent. But here’s the thing…

Change the story, and you change the truth.

The brain is wild like that. Say something enough and you believe it. Believe it long enough, and it becomes law. But say something new, say it enough times, and that becomes law, too.

I’m not socially anxious. I’m not shy. I just used to lean on bad habits to break the ice. But now? I’ve got tools. And it turns out, I’ll talk just about anyone’s ear off when I feel safe. The real truth is: I’m learning how to be a better conversationalist. I’m learning how to listen more, ask more, give space for other people’s stories.

Somewhere along the way, I adopted this weird idea that asking people personal questions would be rude, like if someone had something to share, they would. But that’s not how connection works. I love being asked follow-up questions. I love getting into the good stuff with people. So why wouldn’t others?

So I’m learning to make space.

And no, it’s not that I CAN’T dance without being under the influence. It’s that I’m not a confident dancer yet. But I’m learning.

And let me tell you, West Coast line dancing is no joke. These folks are serious about it. But they’re also serious about community, about curiosity. I was taken under so many wings, shown so much grace. And I had a blast. I made a fool of myself and didn’t care one bit. Not about what I looked like, not about who was watching. Just joy. Just movement.

Making friends? Also not the terrifying feat I thought it was. All it takes is conversation, a little courage, and shared values. That’s it.

The longer story (and trust me, I could go on), is that I’m rediscovering what’s true and throwing out the scripts that don’t serve me anymore.

And the peace that comes with that?

It makes sense now.

It’s the best thing I can do for myself right now.

So here’s to the new stories we create.

To the truths we get to rewrite.

To showing up, even when it’s awkward.

Even when it’s hard.

Even when the old story is still whispering in the background.

I hear it.

But I don’t have to listen.

Here’s to becoming.

A Breakup with my Suffering

There was a time when I thought suffering made me interesting.

Not in a performative way, not consciously. I didn’t sit down and say, “Yes, let me hold onto this misery and build my personality around it.” But looking back, I can see the way I wrapped myself in sadness like it was a safety blanket. Familiar. Soft in that cold way. Almost beautiful. I’d grown used to the weight of it pressing into me, molding to me, like it belonged.

I think I confused pain with depth. Like if I could hurt enough, I could prove I was real. I thought maybe if I held onto it long enough, it would solidify into art or redemption. Maybe even love.

But mostly, it just made me tired.

Suffering became my most committed relationship. Reliable in its own twisted way. It was always there when people left. When I failed. When I couldn’t find words or worth or will. And even when things were good, I’d still find my way back to it, like texting someone I shouldn’t at 2AM. “Hey. You up?”

And suffering always was.

I made excuses for it. I romanticized it. I told myself that being haunted made me whole. I called it poetry. I called it passion. I called it my truth. But really, it was just another version of hiding. A story I kept retelling even after it stopped being true.

There’s a comfort to what’s known, even when it hurts. I knew my sadness so well, I stopped bothering to imagine life beyond it. Like, why climb out when I’ve built a whole goddamn home down here?

But lately, I’ve been rethinking it all.

Something small and quiet in me, maybe it’s hope, maybe it’s boredom, is starting to ask for more. Not in some big Instagram-healing-energy-crystals-and-yoga-on-a-cliff kind of way. (No shade if that’s your thing, I’m halfway there...) But more like, What if I didn’t wake up already apologizing to the day? What if I didn’t default to disaster? What if I stopped trying to make my pain feel like home?

What if I broke up with suffering?

Like really ended things. Changed the locks. Blocked the number. Gave the hoodie back.

I’m not saying I’m healed. I’m not saying I’m floating through life now whispering affirmations and drinking smoothies made of self-love. Honestly, some mornings I still wake up missing it. The ache, the edge, the way sadness used to wrap around me like a second skin. It’s hard to quit something that made you feel seen, even if it nearly killed you. Several times.

But I’m starting to crave something else. Quiet, maybe. Softness. Or maybe just the kind of serenity that doesn’t have to perform for anyone. I want joy that doesn’t need to be earned through agony. I want stillness that doesn’t shame me for not doing more, feeling more, bleeding more.

This breakup won’t be clean.

It never is.

Suffering was a bad lover, but it was mine for a long time. So yeah, I still catch myself reaching for it in the dark, expecting it to be there. Sometimes I even invite it in without realizing. But now, when I do, I catch myself. I remind myself… I don’t live there anymore.

Not forever.

And if you’ve ever loved your pain the way I did, if you’ve ever let it convince you it was the only thing that made you real, I just want to say: you’re allowed to want something better. You’re allowed to move on.

Even if it’s messy.

Even if it’s slow.

Even if all you can do today is whisper, “Not this time.”

That counts too.

We all deserve to fall in love with something gentler.

Even ourselves.

Especially ourselves.

Sorry Doesn’t Fix It

I used to think that saying sorry, REALLY saying it, would unlock something. Like the apology was a key, and once I turned it just right, the tension would loosen, the air would clear, and I could finally exhale. But, I’ve been sitting with the quiet aftermath of an apology that didn’t land the way I hoped it would. And it’s teaching me something I didn’t want to learn: sometimes, “I’m sorry” doesn’t fix it. Not for them. Not even for me.

I spoke from the heart. I meant every word. I laid my shame out gently, hoping it would feel like healing. But what came instead was silence. Or maybe stillness. The kind that hums when a door closes slowly and nothing is said on the other side. And I’ve been stuck in that silence, staring down the echo of my own voice and wondering: Was that enough? Am I enough?

And the truth is, maybe not. Not yet. Maybe an apology isn’t a fix, but a beginning. Maybe it’s less about redemption and more about recognition. A way of saying: I finally see the damage. I finally see you. And I finally see myself clearly, maybe for the first time.

But damn, it hurts when the words don’t land. When you’ve burned so much and all you want is to rebuild something, anything, and instead, you’re left holding the ashes, realizing they were never yours to shape back together.

What I’m learning is that healing. Real healing. isn’t transactional. It’s not a clean slate. It’s not a line drawn in the sand between “then” and “now.” It’s a long, winding road where some people keep walking beside you and others wave from far behind, or don’t wave at all.

And the hardest part? Knowing you might never be seen the way you want to be seen by the person you hurt the most. That’s a grief you don’t prepare for. That’s a grief that curls up in your ribs and asks to be carried anyway.

So I keep walking. I keep trying. Not for a reaction. Not for closure. But because I want to become someone who no longer causes harm. Someone who can hold space for pain… mine and theirs. Without rushing to fix or run away.

Some days, that feels like progress. Other days, it just feels like sitting in the middle of a storm I created, letting the wind remind me what it means to be human.

But even in the storm, I’m still here. Still learning how to love better. Still learning how to stay.

A Hawk Through the Vent — A Dream About Waking Up Inside Myself

I took a nap in my van today, and I think my soul yelled at me.

Or screeched at me, technically.

So here’s the scene… I’m passed out in Oscar (my van, not a person, though honestly, he’s earned first-name status at this point). I’m deep in dreamland, but the dream pretends I’m awake. I’m just lying there, in the same place I actually am, everything calm. Still. Normal. And then… I hear something.

On the roof.

A little shuffle, a thud, like claws maybe.

I look up, and this bird—a hawk or something hawk-ish—just twists through the vent. Like wind. Or smoke. Or the ghost of something wild. It doesn’t break anything, just moves through the mesh like the laws of physics are optional. It lands. And it stares at me.

We make full-on eye contact. No chill.

It’s not threatening, but it’s not exactly cozy either. It’s intense.

It feels like it’s trying to tell me something.

Then—SCREEEEEECH!!!

I jerk awake, breath caught, heart pounding.

Welcome back to the waking world. Sort of.

What the hell was that? I sat here for a bit just trying to process and remember the details, but other than what was stated… it just seemed pretty normal, I honestly thought I was awake in the dream. But the hawk sort of phasing through the vent was weird.

First off: hawks don’t typically ghost-float through vents. So, safe to assume this wasn’t just a bird. This was a Messenger Bird™. A dream ninja. A tiny feathered prophet from the in-between.

And yeah, maybe I read too much into things.

But also… maybe I don’t.

Dream Analysis for the Emotionally Exhausted and Spiritually Curious

Let’s pretend I’m five years old (emotionally, that tracks). Here’s what this dream was probably trying to say:

The bird is small but mighty. Something inside me is waking up. It’s not full-blown hawk energy yet, but it’s getting there. Baby hawk vibes: brave, awkward, full of potential.

It’s gray with color. Which means: not everything is good or bad right now. it’s just real. And the colors? That’s my own magic leaking through the cracks.

Yellow beak with a brown tip. (Yes, I noticed that detail, even in a dream.) Yellow is communication, brown is grounding. Translation? My truth is trying to root itself. My voice is growing legs (or… wings? Still not sure).

The vent. Normally a barrier. In real life, it keeps bugs and weather out. In dream life, it’s the filter between the ordinary and the divine. And this hawk-bird? It doesn’t give a damn about filters. It came in anyway.

The stare. It didn’t just visit. It saw me. Like… deeply. And I saw it. No hiding. No pretending.

The screech. Final boss-level symbolism. That was my soul’s alarm clock.

“WAKE UP. PAY ATTENTION. DON’T MISS IT.”

So, what’s the deeper message here?

I think this dream wasn’t just about a bird.

It was about me.

That hawk was a symbol of my higher self. My intuition. My messy, magical, half-awake sense of clarity that’s starting to stretch its wings.

It came in to say:

“You’re waking up. You’re starting to see what matters. Don’t close your eyes now.”

It’s no coincidence that I’ve been peeling back layers lately. Emotionally, creatively, spiritually. Trying to get honest with myself about what I want, what I need, and who I actually am beneath the performance. This dream felt like confirmation. Like something sacred is watching me get there… and is cheering me on (loudly).

Final Thoughts From the Van

I don’t think the hawk was just in my dream.

I think it is me.

Or some part of me that knows more than I do.

The part that isn’t afraid to fly through barriers.

The part that sees clearly, even from above.

The part that screeches when I’m falling asleep to my own potential.

So if you’ve been feeling something stirring inside you, too…

if there’s a whisper, or a thud on your roof, or a feeling that something’s trying to get through…

Let it.

Look it in the eye.

And maybe screech back.

You’re not alone.

You’re being called.

Bliss Living: Cali Syle

I keep asking myself, “Is this real life?”

Not in the existential dread kind of way (for once), but in the wait… this feels too good to be true kind of way.

Because as far as new starts go?

This one came with ocean views, toes in the sand, and a job that makes me feel like I just stepped into a sun-drenched Pinterest board.

I work here: The Barbara Beach Club !!! an effortlessly cool, public beach club nestled in Santa Barbara. Yes, that Santa Barbara. The one that looks like a coastal dreamscape with breezy vibes and golden hour lighting that seems suspiciously permanent.

I’m the Guest Services Manager, which sounds fancy, but mostly it means I spend my days doing a little bit of everything. Coordinating reservations, curating experiences, helping guests have the best beach day of their lives, and low-key living my own every single time I clock in.

Honestly, it’s surreal.

I spent MONTHS!!! like, full-on chronically-online-job-hunter mode, trying to find a career that recognized the years of retail management I’d poured my soul into. I wanted something meaningful, long-term, not just a filler gig to pass the time. I applied to over 500 jobs (yes, five hundred), and I’m not exaggerating. I sat through rounds of interviews, got ghosted more times than I care to admit, and was told “you’re not quite the right fit” so many times it became my internal monologue.

Until one night, in a haze of frustration and stubborn hope, I said, “Screw it. I’m applying to something that just sounds fun.”

Enter: The Barbara.

A cute, coastal, Instagram-worthy beach club where the vibes are relaxed, the umbrellas are perfectly pastel, and the sand is both your office and your runway. Every day we set it all up, tear it all down, and custom-create beach experiences that feel both luxurious and accessible. Like you’re starring in your own chill summer montage.

And it’s not just the setting.

The people? Incredible. My bosses are kind, supportive, human. The kind of people who trust you to show up as yourself and cheer you on while you figure out your next steps.

And that’s exactly what I’m doing.

This job, this place, it’s giving me something I didn’t even realize I was desperate for: space.

To think.

To breathe.

To write again.

To paint again.

To remember what joy feels like without pressure attached to it.

So here I am: starting over. Skin getting tan. Hair turning beachy blonde. Mind a little clearer. Heart still a mess, but healing in the sunlight.

It doesn’t feel real. But it is.

And I couldn’t be more grateful for this weird, wonderful, windswept chapter of my life.

Here’s to California beginnings, soft resets, and chasing the kind of life that makes you whisper to yourself, “wait… is this actually happening?”

Spoiler: it is.

And it’s only just beginning. 🌊🌞✨

What If This Is It?

What if this is the best it ever gets?

Not in a doom and gloom, throw in the towel kind of way… but in the shaky exhale, slow blink, quiet acceptance kind of way. People love to say “it gets better,” and maybe that’s true. Or maybe “better” is just code for learning to live with it.

It being… this gnawing sadness.

This manic thunderstorm of thoughts.

This weight I carry that sometimes feels like a lead vest and other times like a second skin.

What if this… right here, right now, is it? This messy, contradictory, emotionally tangled version of my life. The one where I cry in parking lots but also dance in the kitchen. The one where my heart feels too big and too tired all at once. The one where I can’t always tell if I’m spiraling or healing or just really, really bored.

What if I make it to my 80s, wrinkled and wise and hopefully still a little inappropriate, and I look back on this time… as the best time of my life?

What if this is the heaven that people talk about in scripture or poetry or those cryptic Instagram captions over blurry sunset photos?

What if we were never promised more than this?

What if this life is just… what we make of it?

No cosmic reset. No golden afterlife. No next level.

Just this…

the now,

the real,

the raw,

the ridiculous.

What if the only “meaning” is the one we build ourselves, out of dog hair on the couch and conversations at midnight and rollerblades on a weekday? What if I stop waiting for the fog to lift and just decide to dance in it? What if instead of trying to escape my lows, I learned to sit with them, offer them tea, and gently remind them who’s steering?

What if this is my only chance to live a great life?

And instead of wasting it on maybe-one-days or endless self-doubt or comparing my insides to someone else’s carefully curated outsides, I chose this moment, this exact version of me, and said:

Yes. Him. He’s worth building something for.

It sounds sad, maybe. But to me, it’s not.

It’s exhilarating.

Because if this is it,

then I get to choose how I show up.

I get to chase the joy.

I get to write the meaning into the margins.

This is the best day I’ve ever had because I’m in it.

And I’m not going anywhere.

I’ll find the good.

I’ll make it great.

I have no other choice.

And honestly, I wouldn’t want one.

Rollerblades, Regret Texts, and Remarkable Butts

Yikes. So apparently, sending a group of heartfelt (but slightly melodramatic) messages to several friends that “this may be the last message you get from me…” followed by a photo and video of me in rollerblades was… not received with the playful, chaotic flair I had envisioned.

Turns out, when you have a well-documented mental health history and a reputation for going full existential in the group chat, people take those messages very seriously. Who knew? (Me. I should have known. I know now.)

Anyway. Bless my beautiful, anxious, ride-or-die friends who leapt straight into worst-case-scenario mode like Olympic gold-medalists of emotional triage. They were on it. Phones ringing. Texts flying. Emotional support emojis being deployed in real time. Meanwhile, I was gliding (read: wobbling with incredible dramatic flair) down the bike path in the sun, having the absolute time of my life.

Yes, friends, this is my formal public apology. I’m working on being more intentional with my words and maybe not pairing apocalyptic phrasing with footage of me looking like a baby deer on wheels.

But let’s get to the real headline here: I rollerbladed 4 miles today and didn’t die once, emotionally or physically! Ankles? Shaky. Confidence? Skyrocketing. Sweat? Profuse. Regret? Minimal.

I’d been toying with the idea of getting a bike to pair with Oscar (that’s my van, not a man, although I do like my vehicles emotionally complicated and slightly unreliable). But Oscar doesn’t have a hitch yet, and I don’t have hitch money. So I looked down, saw my little gay feet, and thought: What about smaller wheels?

Enter: rollerblades.

Inspired by this glorious, radiant woman I see skating by the beach every single day. She dances as she blades, headphones in, sun glowing off her perfect skin and… no exaggeration… the nicest ass I’ve ever seen in my entire life.

And listen, I’m not even into women like that. But her butt has gravitational pull. That butt changes lives. That butt is a call to action.

So now I’m on a mission. To save gas. To feel joy. To maybe, someday, have half the poise and posterior presence of my beach-blading icon.

Also: I have to remember to bring a change of shoes because, I assume walking into a 7-Eleven in full rollerblades is not the same as making a dramatic movie entrance. It’s more like watching someone try to moonwalk on marbles.

Anyway, I’m thrilled. I’m sore. I’m maybe a public menace on wheels. But I am happy.

And if I fall (which I will, let’s be honest), I promise I’ll document it—just maybe with a little less end-of-days phrasing and a little more “Hey, guess who looked like a scared baby goat doing cartwheels in a parking lot today?”

We grow. We roll. We moisturize our bruises. Let’s ride.

Life from Inside the Veil – A Tribute to That One New Friend Who Just Gets It

There’s a special kind of magic in meeting someone who just gets you.
Not in a "we both like oat milk and hate small talk" kind of way (though, valid), but in the “oh no, we’ve trauma-synced” kind of way.

You know the type. The person you’ve known for approximately 37 seconds but suddenly find yourself spiraling into a deep life chat with—on a beach, at a gas station, or during what was supposed to be a quick text chat that turned into a philosophical deep-dive on heartbreak and metaphysics.

They ask you how you’re doing and you actually tell them.
And they don’t run.
They nod. They relate. They say, “Same.”
Then they say something devastatingly insightful and casually funny, and suddenly you’re wondering if they’re an emotional support cryptid sent by the universe.

It’s weird. It’s wonderful. It’s mildly terrifying.

This friendship isn’t about constant contact or knowing each other’s favorite sandwich. It’s about that click. That moment when you both look at each other like,
“Did we meet in another life?”
“Are we trauma twins?”
“Did we just become best friends?!”

Yes. Yes, you did.

And while you're trying really hard not to emotionally imprint like a baby duck, you’re also deeply grateful. Because sometimes, just sometimes, life throws you a person who understands your chaos without needing a PowerPoint presentation.

Hold them close. Or don’t.
They probably already know what you're feeling anyway.

Flowers in My Heart, Part Two

I wrote Flowers in Your Heart during a time when I was trying to hold onto love like it was the last sacred thing I had. It felt delicate, precious, full of potential.
Now? I still believe in love.
But I also believe in the pain of loving wrong, the ache of loving too much, and the quiet courage it takes to try again.

This follow-up isn’t tied up with a bow. It’s messy and bruised, full of jagged edges and open wounds.
But it’s mine.
It’s growth.
It’s the flowers that bloom after everything burned down.

I'll be publishing the full piece here soon. It deserves its own space.

Three Months Sober

Three months sober.
That number doesn’t sound big until you live it. Until you feel every uncomfortable hour, every lonely night, every moment you almost said “fuck it” and didn’t.

I’ve made it to the 8th step of the 12. The one where you start thinking about the people you've hurt, the damage you’ve done—not to punish yourself, but to begin healing. And let me tell you, looking at your past with clear eyes and a steady heart is one of the bravest and most painful things you can do.

I miss my old life sometimes.
The comfort of routine, the softness of shared meals, the feeling of Madi’s weight pressed up against me while the world spun too fast.
I miss him.
I miss the way our relationship felt when it was safe, sacred, and still full of wonder.
But I’m also learning to miss those things without needing to go back to them.

Because I’m growing.
For the first time in a long time, I have space to ask, “Who am I without the chaos? Without the coping?”
I have permission to show up fully, even when I’m a mess.
Even when I’m unsure.
Even when I don’t recognize myself just yet.

I’m learning how to love me. Not the version I showed the world. Not the curated one.
But the raw one.
The quiet one.
The version of me that needs gentleness more than performance.

Sobriety has cracked me open, and there’s beauty in what’s leaking out.
I’m not trying to fix myself anymore. I’m just trying to understand who I really am—and offer that person the kind of love I used to give away so easily to everyone else.

More to come.
More growth.
More truth.
And maybe—finally—more peace.

I Am the Wreckage and the Rebuilder

Some days I wake up and feel like I’ve survived something ancient. Other days, I feel like I’m still in it, crawling through the burning wreckage with smoke in my lungs and cracked hands.
The truth?
I am both the wreckage and the one rebuilding. I am the collapse and the carpenter.

This year cracked me open in ways I wasn’t ready for. A separation I chose and didn’t. A job I left. People I helped through darkness while quietly carrying my own. Art became less about aesthetic and more about survival. Poetry stopped rhyming and started bleeding.

If you’re reading this and feel broken too—congratulations. You’re alive. And maybe a little haunted.
Same.

My Job Is Just… Beach

So… I got a job.
Not just any job.
I’m a Guest Services Manager at a literal beach club. Like, on the beach. Like, I stand barefoot in the sand making sure people have chairs, umbrellas, towels, and cute little snacks—and somehow, this is my actual life.

It’s a pop-up beach club in Southern California, and I oversee rentals and retail. No booze, no bar drama, no toxic restaurant energy. Just sun, sand, the occasional mad rush of tourists needing lounge chairs immediately, and then… stillness.

And let me tell you: the stillness is nice.
The lack of stress is nice.
This might be the first job I’ve had in years that doesn’t feel like it’s siphoning the life out of me.

My hair’s getting blonder. My skin’s getting tanner. I’m slowly starting to look like someone who doesn’t cry in bathroom stalls or need three espresso shots to fake a smile.
I live in a van.
I park near the ocean.
I even SOMETIMES rinse my feet off with a hose and call it a shower. (Don’t worry, I still have an ACTUAL shower almost every day)

And honestly?
I love it.

This job, this moment—it’s not forever. But it feels like the right kind of now. A chance to make some money while working on me.
To rebuild quietly.
To show up every day to salt air, gentle chaos, and a version of myself that’s learning to breathe without fear.

Beach life isn’t the escape.
It’s the grounding.

And I’m grateful.
Even if I do still get sand everywhere.

Oscar’s First Breakdown (Because of Course He Did)

Well, it didn’t take long.

Oscar, my charming, creaky 1991 Dodge B350, got towed yesterday. Not even a full week into this new life chapter, and already we’ve hit our first “lesson.” Spoiler alert: it was messy, inconvenient, and just the right amount of existentially humbling.

The culprit? A cracked, brittle old transmission hose (that was actually just a garden hose with a dream) that decided to finally give up on life. Fluid everywhere. Van wouldn’t shift. I was stuck in neutral, both literally and emotionally.

Cue the slow-motion tow truck moment. Watching Oscar being dragged off like a defeated war horse, I stood there feeling like a sad, cowboy who just lost his last cigarette and his horse in one go.

And you know what? I didn’t cry.
Okay, maybe a little.
But mostly, I just stared at the mess and thought, “Of course. Of fucking course.”

Because that’s how this year’s been: full of beauty and breakdowns. Forward motion followed by gut punches. Freedom with a price tag.

Still, I’d rather be here, in this unpredictable, oil-stained, soul-stretching mess, than back in a life that felt like I was just surviving someone else’s idea of stability.

Oscar’s been to the hospital now. I’m in limbo. Again.
But we’ll both come out of this with a few more scars and a little more character.
(And hopefully a new hose that doesn’t burst at the first sign of hope.)

More soon.
This road trip is just getting started.

I Moved Into a 1991 Van Named Oscar

I guess this is the part where I say something like, "New chapter, new wheels," but honestly? It’s less romantic and more “what the fuck am I doing?”

I moved into a 1991 Dodge B350 van. His name is Oscar. He’s boxy, creaky, smells a bit like old dust and freedom, and somehow, I already feel more at home here than I have in any apartment in years.

It’s not glamorous. I’m not out here pretending to be a Pinterest vanlife influencer with fairy lights and pour-over coffee rituals. I’ve got paint-stained sheets, two half-broken drawers, a cooler that whines louder than I do when I spiral, and a drawer full of tangled chargers and emotional damage.

And there’s space.
To breathe.
To paint.
To write.
To scream into the void when I need to.
And lately, I’ve needed to.

Madi, my Great Dane, doesn’t live with me right now. That part hurts more than I expected. She’s my emotional support behemoth, and not having her curled up (read: sprawled like royalty) next to me makes the space feel quieter in a way that isn’t always peaceful. I miss her a lot.

But I’m here.
This isn’t an escape—it’s an arrival. A shift. A claiming of space that’s mine, even if it’s on wheels and held together by hope and duct tape.

More on that later.
Oscar and I are just getting started.

What I Really Want: Honesty, Connection, and Growth (With a Dash of Adventure)

I want to bring honesty and connection to the front row of my life’s show. No smoke, no mirrors, just real talk, open hearts, and the messy, beautiful work of being human together. I want to be someone who values connection so deeply that it’s like oxygen: communication, honesty, trust, the basics that keep everything else alive.

I want to share my love of art, nature, music, writing, and the outdoors. Imagine us wandering a forest trail or debating if a painting is “modern art” or just “something my dog could’ve made.” I want a partner who’s not just along for the ride but ready to dive into life’s adventures, snacks packed, and maybe a questionable playlist queued up.

But above all, I want to keep growing mentally, physically, spiritually, like a wildflower that somehow manages to bloom even in cracks of concrete (because who doesn’t want to be a little badass like that?).

Here’s the shortlist of my non-negotiables, the traits I’m hunting for in this wild journey called love:

Honesty: Let’s be real, no secret-keeping, no cryptic texts, just straight-up transparency.
Communication: The good, the bad, the “I’m freaking out over a text” kind of talks, all with zero judgment.
Understanding: Someone who sees me, the whole package, and doesn’t run for the hills when the past shows up uninvited.
Adventure: A partner-in-crime for spontaneous road trips, star-gazing sessions, and the occasional “I swear I can’t hike another step” moment.
Growth: Mental, physical, spiritual, like a lifelong project we’re both invested in, no shortcuts.

I want someone who’s not scared of my anxieties and panics but sees them as part of the landscape, like mountains in the distance, sometimes intimidating but always a part of the view. Someone who’s okay with me talking about my feelings without fear of a “Really? Again?” eye-roll.

I want the freedom to say what’s on my mind, no filters, no fear, because that’s where true connection starts. I want a partnership where silence can be comfortable, trust is steady, and honesty feels like home.

At the end of the day, it’s honesty, connection, and growth. And maybe some laughter when things get ridiculous because if you can’t laugh at life’s chaos, what’s the point?

My Art is Full of Naked Men and Emotional Damage

I’ve been painting a lot of asses and dicks lately. Let’s just name it. Male nudes. Veiny, exposed, faceless. Not for shock, not for clout, but because there’s something painfully honest about the way we perform identity, especially in queer spaces.

The collection I’m working on, tentatively titled anon..? focuses on the way we show our bodies but not our faces. How sex and intimacy can be both validating and void filling.
It’s about online hookup culture. It’s about shame and desire. It’s about us.

And yeah, I have to be picky about what I hang in gallery shows. But you better believe the rawest pieces are coming soon, well as soon as I get some life bits figured out…

I Don’t Have My Life Together, But I’m Creating Anyway

I get told I’m the “strong one” a lot. The dependable friend. The one who knows how to help. And maybe that’s true.
But lately I’ve been held together by cheap wine, impulse control issues, and way too many half-written poems in the Notes app.

There’s beauty in that though—in the chaos.
In not having it figured out but still making something.
Still showing up. Still creating.
Even when your brain feels like a manic hellscape.

This site isn’t polished. Neither am I.
But I’m here.
Still making art.
Still finding the words.
Still breathing.
And if you’re here too—thanks. That means more than I can explain.