A Weekend Without Oscar

I love my van. I really do.

Oscar is home, adventure, and freedom on wheels. But after months of living in 72 square feet, stepping into a real house for a weekend felt like I’d checked into a five-star hotel, especially when it came with a temporary roommate named Murphy.

Murphy is my brother’s dog, all wagging tail and soulful eyes. I was technically “house sitting,” but really I was Murphy’s weekend sidekick. We went on walks, shared the couch, and she watched me cook like I was the most fascinating reality show on TV (which it’s been a while since I was in a real kitchen, I probably looked so amazed.)

The shift from van life to house life is subtle but powerful. In the van, every action is part of a mental puzzle: where will I park tonight? Did I leave enough battery power for the fan? How can I make coffee without sending half the grounds onto the floor? Even things as small as chopping food mean working in a space where the counter is also the stovetop, which is also where I store things on top of.

That weekend, all of that fell away. I sprawled on a couch without my feet hanging off. I took long showers without turning the water off between shampoo and conditioner. I cooked dinner on a real stove, on a counter that didn’t slide away with every movement. And in the background, there was Murphy, thumping her tail against the floor, happy just to be nearby.

The quiet luxury wasn’t about fancy things. It was about stillness. About having a door I could shut without wondering if it was locked from the outside. About waking up and not having to mentally calculate my water supply, my battery life, or the next safe place to park.

By Monday night, I felt like I’d been gone for a week. I stepped back into Oscar with a fresh mind, a little more appreciation for the comforts I don’t always have, and the reminder that taking a break isn’t stepping away from the life I’ve built. It’s giving myself the space to enjoy it even more.

Turns out, even nomads need a break from the road sometimes.

Buzz Cuts & Bad Bleach: How I Deal With Anger Now

I deal with anger differently these days. I’ve started treating it as an inevitability, like a sudden storm, you can’t stop it from rolling in, but you can decide how you’re going to stand in the rain.

There are certain moments where nothing you do will change the outcome. And somewhere along the way, my reactions shifted to meet that truth.

Yesterday was one of those moments.

My roots had grown out dark against my light hair, and I decided it was time to fix it. I’ve processed my hair so many times that I should have known better. A summer spent in the sun had lightened my blonde to almost white, and it had already done more damage than I cared to admit. But I was stubborn. I reached for the bleach anyway.

And then… I melted the ends of my hair. Literally.

What started as an attempt to brighten my roots ended with me holding a pair of clippers, giving myself a buzz cut before anyone could see the mess I’d made.

I was upset. I was frustrated. And I was calm.

There wasn’t anything I could do. There wasn’t a fix. The only solution was to cut it off and move forward.

So I felt my emotions, and then I dealt with it.

And that’s what anger has become for me. Not a fire I have to feed, not a wave I have to fight, but a passing moment. Something I can stand in without letting it drown me.

Sometimes it takes burning your hair off to remember that.

Letting Go of the Directors Chair

I’m not really one for religion. I wasn’t raised in a church, and I’ve always leaned more toward energy than dogma. toward sunsets and serendipity more than sermons. But in the last few months, I’ve found myself believing in something bigger than me. Or maybe it’s more accurate to say… I’ve started belonging to something bigger than me. Something in the universe. A rhythm I can’t explain, but one I’ve finally started (line) dancing to instead of resisting.

When I first came to California, I was completely lost. Empty tank. No map. I felt so low I couldn’t imagine what “better” even looked like. But somehow, despite it all, something here called to me. Not a voice exactly, but a pull. Something said: stay.

I remember being given a simple suggestion:

No matter what you believe in, write down what you need help with. Call it a prayer. Call it manifestation. Call it sending smoke signals into the sky. Just write it.

So I did.

In early April, I scribbled down something that went like this:

Please help me calm my mind. Let the best path for me present itself. Help me find a way to stay in this city, afford this life in just the ways I need in order to grow. I give this to you. I surrender. Show me the way forward. Please.

And last night, I read those words again. I mean really read them.

Isn’t that exactly what happened?

Not all at once, not in the ways I thought it would. But somehow, the help arrived. The path showed itself, piece by piece. Not grand and dramatic. But quietly, clearly, and just in time. I didn’t get everything I wanted… but I got everything I needed.

It made me think about the big questions I’m wrestling with now. The decisions looming over me, the forks in the road. My instinct is to muscle through it all. Grip tighter. Power forward. But rereading that sort of prayer reminded me that there’s clarity in surrender. There’s peace in not having all the answers.

Because when I try to control every outcome, I don’t feel powerful. I feel terrified. Like I’m clinging to the last few pieces of the life I thought I had. The one I thought I deserved. But the truth is, the more I death-grip what’s falling apart, the more I hold everything, including myself and others, in limbo.

So right now, I’m practicing letting go.

Letting go of ego.

Letting go of pride.

Letting go of the need to direct the whole damn movie of my life.

I’m still showing up. Still doing the work. But I’m not the director anymore. I don’t want to be. Not this time.

Because when I finally let the universe take the reins, something beautiful happens.

Not perfect. Not painless.

But beautiful.

And maybe that’s faith, not in a god, necessarily, but in the idea that I don’t have to do this alone. That I never really was.

The Sky Reminded Me

I was staring up at the sky after work today.

Not searching for anything in particular, just tired.

Sunlight always seems to drain me, even on the best days. And today was one of the best. I had a great shift, met some wonderful people. Laughed. Connected. It felt good to be human.

But as I carried my equipment across the sand, I was annoyed.

Heavy, tired. Ready to be done.

Then I looked up and it all melted away.

I mean really melted away.

The frustration, the fatigue, even the part of me that always seems to stay clenched no matter how good the day was.

And suddenly, I broke.

Right there, on the beach, under that impossible California sky.

Indiana doesn’t usually get credit for beauty. But its sunsets are quiet miracles. So, my standards are high in that regard.

But today in central California? It stopped me cold.

Stopped me in that way where time slows down and you realize, I almost missed this. I started crying, heavy crying. Right there.

This moment.

This job.

This beach.

This life.

I almost missed it. And it’s uncomfortable to say all the ways I mean that.

But standing there, knees soft and heart cracked open, all I could do was witness.

The glory. The greatness. The reminder.

It flipped me back into gratitude so fast it felt like whiplash.

And I welcomed it.

The truth is, a lot of things didn’t go as planned.

A lot of things I’m still holding onto.

Some days, moving on feels impossible.

I’m trying, really trying, to do what’s right. For everyone. Not just for me.

And somewhere along the way, I gave up control of my own life.

I stopped deciding and started surrendering.

To energy. Vibes. The stars. The grand design. A higher power. God. Gods.

Something bigger than me.

Anything but me.

And oddly, that feels okay.

Because I’m learning that maybe my purpose isn’t to have or to take or to achieve.

Maybe it’s just to be.

And to give.

To offer what I can with open hands, and trust that what’s meant for me will find me, whether I chase it or not.

I’m trying so hard to stop reaching.

To stop begging the world for more.

To look at what I have, really look at it, and let that be enough.

And all of that came from the sky.

From a sunset that reminded me I still get to be here.

That I still have the chance to try again.

That I didn’t miss it, not all the way.

I’m so grateful for the love I receive.

For the support. For the small miracles disguised as conversations and sunsets and breakdowns on beaches.

I’m grateful for my experiences, the good and the brutal.

Because they brought me here.

And here is where I get to rebuild.

Into someone I want to be.

Someone I can be proud of.

Not a Moment, But Momentum

When I first heard the phrase spiritual awakening, I’ll be honest. I flinched a little.

Because what if I didn’t feel anything?

What if the clouds never parted, and no one whispered guidance through a beam of light?

I wasn’t sure how I’d know if something had shifted.

But somewhere along the way, maybe more in reflecting for this letter than in living it, I realized:

I was changing.

Just… not in the way I expected.

Maybe you all saw it before I did.

I didn’t wake up enlightened.

I woke up tired. Anxious. Still afraid of myself some days.

But I was showing up.

And weirdly? I was willing to keep trying.

I left the life we had built overseas. Said goodbye to my husband. Left my dog behind.

Then I moved into a van by myself.

And not because I was chasing some aesthetic Pinterest dream.

I did it because I finally wanted to stop disappearing in my own life.

Because u knew this is where I needed to be to continue this.

I wanted to live.

Which, honestly, is huge.

That’s a spiritual shift, even if it’s not particularly glamorous. Even if there’s sand in my bed and condensation on the ceiling.

I used to drink to quiet the noise.

To feel connected, confident, worthy.

I filled my calendar and my cup to avoid being alone.

I used people and alcohol alike to stay the center of something, anything, just to not feel like nothing.

I don’t do that anymore.

Now I write. Essays. Stories. Poetry.

I talk to people. I listen.

I feel things and let them stay a while.

And I don’t want to numb that. I don’t want to miss it. Not even the hard parts.

I’ve started saying yes.

Yes to looking like a fool while line dancing with my friends.

Yes to surfing, even though I mostly just fall and flail and laugh.

Yes to helping strangers. Yes to awkward invitations. Yes to things that still scare me.

And that’s new. That’s not who I was.

I don’t have a lightning-strike transformation story.

What I have is this:

I don’t escape myself anymore.

I try to be honest. I try to help.

And I’m learning to sit with myself, even when I’m sad and messy and nowhere close to knowing what comes next.

Maybe that’s what awakening actually looks like.

Not a single moment, but a series of movements.

A slow, stubborn turning toward life.

Even when it scares the hell out of me.

With love,

Dylan :)

Sorta Homeless

So here’s to almost two months of being sorta homeless!

Van life has its ups and downs, for sure. I thought it was going to be much harder when I started. Honestly, it helped that I didn’t give myself much of a choice. I was fresh off the plane, grieving, untangling a life that had unraveled in slow motion. I was trying to get everything “right” again… which, spoiler alert, basically meant starting from zero.

I knew my drinking had spiraled and played its part in the great collapse. So when I arrived in Santa Barbara, originally planning just a week or two, it wasn’t just the ocean breeze or palm trees that got to me. Something clicked. Something landed in my chest and whispered, stay. Call it God, the universe, a higher power… call it whatever you want. I know what it was for me. It changed me.

I met people I didn’t know would become mentors, friends, life coaches, anchors. People who would crack me open in the best ways and remind me I’m not alone. It was immediate, I couldn’t leave. I wouldn’t leave.

Don’t get me wrong, there were so many other places I wanted to be. I wanted to go home to the Midwest, to see my family. I wanted to get on a plane back to Japan, to try and piece everything back together. I missed my husband, my dog, my life. But everything in me said: Be still. Be present. Be here.

So I stayed.

And somewhere in this stillness, I started to learn things. About myself. About who I want to become. About the ways I’d abandoned myself and the ways I could come back. I’ve found clarity in helping others, found meaning in small moments, found me again, even when I didn’t recognize the version staring back.

That said… yeah, I still miss Japan. I still wish I could go back and hit resume. But I know, deep down… I’d be carrying all the same darkness with me. These patterns I’m working to break? They don’t disappear when your ZIP code changes. I’ve tried. Trust me, I’ve moved enough in the last decade to prove it. That ache, that chaos? It always catches up unless you face it, treat it, untangle it, and finally, let it go.

So, no job. No housing. But still, I knew I needed to stay.

Enter: Oscar. The van, the myth, the legend. A 1991 Dodge B350 Xplorer that landed in my lap at just the right moment. The guest room at my brother’s place was about to close up shop, and I needed a space to call mine. A home. And Oscar would do just fine.

I was scared. No van experience. No mechanical know-how. No fancy conversion plan. Just the gut feeling that this was where I was supposed to be. A few weeks on the stock kitchenette fold-down bed was all it took to realize: I needed more legroom. So, in true DIY fashion, a friend and I tore out half the van in a local parking lot and built a longer bed, one I can (mostly) fit on.

When I say “longer,” I mean… just barely. I sleep vampire-style, arms crossed over my chest, flat on my back. God help the stranger who walks past my window mid-nap and thinks they’ve stumbled upon a true crime scene.

Other upgrades followed. I swapped out the old, inefficient fridge that was guzzling precious solar energy for a more sustainable 12V cooler. When you’re running everything off a cheap solar panel and a tiny battery, power becomes gold. And even now, most nights I run out before the sun does.

Next up? Storage and power. Right now, I have a small hanging closet in the back, a little cabinet for my pantry, and a bit of space under the bed. Not much. But I’ve got sketches in my notebook for what’s next - shelves, drawers, a dream layout I’ll build when I have the wood, the tools, the money, and the space.

Then there’s the electrical system. I dream of the day I won’t have to run an extension cord through my window like some janky little gremlin just to charge my phone. I’ve studied diagrams, read reviews, built an Amazon wishlist so long it deserves its own zip code. It’s going to happen. Just gotta save up, because damn, it’s not cheap.

In the meantime, I’m getting by. Little things. Little tweaks. Little habits that add up. I’m staying put for the summer. Working at the beach, surrounded by an amazing and supportive community. The nomadic life has shifted a bit for now, but it’s still deeply internal. Almost all of this journey happens inside.

People tell me I should make van life videos. Go viral. TikTok the chaos. And maybe I will. But for these first two months, it’s felt so personal, so mental, so mine, I don’t even know where I’d begin.

Right now, the project is figuring out how to store an eight-foot surfboard outside the van without blocking what little solar power I manage to collect. Let me tell you… an eight-foot board running down the center aisle of a tiny van? Chaos. Pure chaos. Many a stubbed toe. Many a muttered curse. But, like me, Oscar is a work in progress.

And that’s the truth of it: I don’t have a lot. But I have enough. I’m learning to live with less, and be okay with less. There’s still more I want. Of course. Life-improving systems. A little comfort. A little safety net. But there’s something beautiful in the simplicity. Something grounding. Something that feels like healing.

So yeah. Here’s to two months of being sorta homeless.

Soda Can Kazoo

Hey friends,

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about joy. Not the big, dramatic, confetti kind. The small, quiet kind. The kind you don’t realize you’re missing until it shows up beside you on a beach holding a crushed soda can.

Here’s a story from today, and a question I’m still sitting with:

When Did I Lose It?

I’m not sure when it happened, when the small wonders stopped being enough.

These days, I sit in my van, Oscar, running through mental checklists.

More insulation. A better fan. Some shelves.

Figure out the bed. Maybe add a little plant to make it feel more “home.”

I scroll through maps and travel pages, planning all the places I’ll go once the van is perfect. Once I’m perfect. Once I’ve finally fixed enough things to deserve the kind of peace I’ve been chasing for what feels like forever.

And then from my desk on the beach, I hear laughter.

To my left, a little kid is blowing into a soda can like it’s a Grammy winning instrument.

The noise is terrible.

She is delighted.

Belly laughing. Red faced. Pure joy.

To my right, another kid is burying his cousin in the sand, their giggles echoing louder than the waves.

No phones. No curated content.

Just two kids, one beach, and the kind of laughter I haven’t felt in a long time.

And I sit there, in between them, thinking:

When did I lose that?

When did joy become something I had to earn?

When did I stop letting small things be enough?

I could blame it on growing up.

On stress, grief, mental illness.

On capitalism, trauma, the mess of becoming a person.

(And honestly, yeah…  all of those are valid.)

But if I’m honest? I think I just stopped noticing.

I got so wrapped up in fixing my life

that I forgot how to live it.

What If It Was Never Gone?

I used to be that kid. Maybe not with a soda can kazoo, but still.

I used to laugh at dumb things.

Get excited about a cool rock (pretty sure my mother still probably has my box of rocks stored somewhere, sorry mom!) or a song on the radio.

I used to let little moments spark something in me.

Now, I tend to overlook them. I’m so busy building a future that I forget the present has its own kind of beauty.

Its own kind of joy.

The kind that lives in a cheap noise and a kid who can’t stop giggling.

What I’m Learning

I want to find that joy again.

Not in some big, sweeping life change. Although that’s sorta the current trajectory. But,

Just in the everyday.

I want to let the sand stick to my feet and not be annoyed.

I want to laugh when something is stupidly funny, even if no one else gets it.

I want to stop chasing joy like it’s miles ahead of me, when maybe it’s just sitting beside me, waiting to be noticed.

That kid didn’t build a van.

He didn’t meditate or journal or finally heal all his childhood wounds.

He just made a sound with a piece of trash

and let it be enough.

I want that kind of enough.

If this hits something in you, you’re not alone.

Maybe joy isn’t gone.

Maybe we just have to stop, look up, and listen for the kazoo.

’Til next time,

Dylan

Saltwater and Moonlight

I wasn’t sure I was gonna go.

I sat with it for a bit, feeling nervous in a way I didn’t want to admit out loud. Just that quiet hum in the back of my head saying you’re older, you don’t really know them, you don’t drink, you don’t surf, you’re gonna look stupid. All of it. But I still went.

And honestly? I had a blast.

I’m sore as hell. I flailed around like a cartoon character. But I caught a couple waves. I even stood up a few times. And that feeling, riding a wave with the sunset lighting up the mountains behind me and the sky bleeding orange and pink, it was something I didn’t know I needed.

I kept thinking, I would’ve missed this if I listened to the voice that said don’t go.

It was unreal. The sun finally dipped and disappeared, and then the moon just showed up like she owned the place. Full, bright, huge. It was actually gorgeous. She lit up the water and I swear there was this shimmer in the waves. like some soft glowing bioluminescence. Like the ocean was in on the moment too.

We stayed out there a bit longer. Then stood around chatting with our boards in the vans. Everyone was laughing and sharing stories and I realized I didn’t feel out of place anymore. And when I looked up? The stars were just… loud. Like, really there. The mountains were these dark jagged shadows and the moonlight was hitting just right and it felt like we were the only ones in the world getting to see it.

I don’t know, it was just one of those nights where everything softened. Like all the heaviness I’ve been carrying didn’t disappear, but it lifted just enough to breathe again.

Nature really said: You needed this, huh?

And yeah, I did.

I feel light. I feel proud of myself for going. For saying yes. For catching a wave. For standing up. For being sober and still showing up for joy. Even when it feels easier to stay home and hide.

Tonight felt healing in a way that didn’t try too hard. No big revelation. No “everything is okay now.” Just… this was good. And that’s enough.

Here For You

Lately, as I’ve written about so many times, I’ve been in this weird, exhausting, sacred process of learning myself. Not just in the surface ways, like realizing I hate loud bars or that I actually do like morning walks. But in the deeper, scarier ways. The “why do I do that?” ways. The “what am I actually afraid of?” ways. The kind of self-work that feels like peeling off layers of armor I didn’t even know I put on.

And I keep coming back to this one truth that feels both inconvenient and deeply right.

I feel the most like myself when I’m helping someone else.

Not helping to distract from my own shit. Not helping to feel needed or important or to earn love (though, full honesty, I’ve definitely done that before).

Helping because it reminds me I have something to offer. That even when I feel broken, down, or barely holding it together, there’s still light coming through… and it’s not just for me.

When I reach out, check in, sit with someone through their stuff… it pulls me out of my own storm. I stop circling my own drain and remember, other people are here. Struggling, surviving, laughing through tears, just like me. And being of service isn’t about fixing them. It’s about witnessing. Holding space. Offering presence.

And something shifts in me when I do that.

The weight of my own problems doesn’t vanish, but it feels different. Lighter. Like maybe the point of all this healing isn’t just to become some perfect, self-aware version of myself, but to use that awareness to show up for others in real ways.

There’s something newly radical about choosing to care.

Not in the loud, look at me kind of way. Though I am guilty of and trying to be more aware of this aspect.

In the quiet “I’m here, and I see you” kind of way.

And the more I do that, the more I feel connected to something real. Something that doesn’t depend on how good my day is going or whether I’ve solved all my inner turmoil.

Maybe the best version of me isn’t the one who has it all figured out.

Maybe it’s the version who still shows up. Imperfect, honest, heart wide open, because someone else might need that exact energy today.

And that feels like enough. Maybe even more than enough.

Independence Day

I got here on St. Patrick’s Day, with nothing left in me.

A ghost of who I was.

A shell of everything my life had become.

It’s been a few months now, and I sit here reflecting on Independence Day.

It’s hard, really hard, to recognize the time I’ve put in. The work I’ve done.

Unlearning old stories.

Letting go of my faults, my flaws, the versions of myself I clung to just to survive.

Growing slowly.

Nourishing intentionally.

Trying my best.

And for the most part, I am proud of my growth.

I look in the mirror and I truly see someone different looking back at me.

And I’m proud of him. He’s softer now. But stronger, too.

Still, there’s a piece of me missing.

A part of me carved out so cleanly I barely noticed until it was gone.

And I don’t have the tools to heal it right now.

I’ve tried. God knows I’ve tried.

Tried to fill it. Patch it. Distract it.

That’s how I ended up here.

So I sit with it.

I feel it.

I study its shape, its ache, its weight.

I’m learning to be comfortable in the pain of knowing it’s not coming back.

That it was real, and it was mine, and it’s over.

Eventually, I know, my skin will stretch.

The wound will close.

And what’s left behind will be a scar.

Not gone.

Not back to normal.

But a reminder.

Of the loss.

The grief.

The love that changed me, and the self I had to become after it left.

And that… I have to learn to live with.

To accept as fact.

To make space for in my new wholeness.

A wholeness I’m learning can’t be given to me by anyone else.

Because the person who used to occupy that space…

doesn’t want to fit there anymore.

And maybe that’s the most painful kind of freedom.

But maybe it’s also the most honest kind of beginning.

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.