I went camping again this week. A couple of nights under the stars with my friends, a few days chasing waves. Salt water in my hair, sand in my bed, sore muscles that feel like proof I lived a little harder than usual.
It was good, really good. The kind of good that sneaks up on you when you’re just sitting in a circle, passing cards around, laughing at something dumb. We played Monopoly Deal one night, and two of my buddies had never played before. It turned into this chaotic mix of half-explaining rules, half-yelling at each other for stealing properties, and it felt like exactly the kind of silly joy I didn’t know I’d been missing.
We camped along California 1 the first night. I saw the half moon set into the ocean for the first time in my life. I didn’t even know the moon set like the sun… like, apparently that’s just a thing it does? It was wild to watch. Something about it made me feel so small in the best possible way. The kind of small that reminds you you’re just a piece of this massive, beautiful universe.
Night two we headed into the mountains. A total shift, trees and mountain tops, instead of coastline, cool air instead of salt spray. We stopped at Neptune’s Net (twice in one day, because why not?) and it was exactly what I wanted it to be. Greasy, delicious, messy, and perfect.
Somewhere between the van, the ocean, and the mountain roads, I felt connected… To my friends, to nature, to the water in a way I’ve been craving. The kind of connection that makes everything else feel quieter.
And at the same time… there’s still the other side of the coin. The grief, the loss, the mourning of a life I thought I’d still be living. Separation is strange. It’s like losing someone who hasn’t died. They’re still here, just not in the same shape anymore. And that absence aches in a way that’s hard to name.
I’m out here creating this life of growth and adventure, yet there’s still this shadow part of me that wishes I could share it with him. Even knowing it wouldn’t work, even knowing we couldn’t just go back. There’s this tiny corner of my brain whispering: what if we could start over now, with everything I’ve learned, with who I’ve become? Would it be different?
It’s this strange dichotomy. Days filled with adrenaline, surfboards, campfire laughter, and still this constant hum of absence. My new friends only know this version of me. They don’t know what I lost. Sometimes I want to scream it at them: ask me what I lost! But how could they? They only know who I am now.
And in my head, the same story keeps circling. I tell myself I know how it would play out, even if we tried again. Still, part of me wonders… am I grieving, or am I punishing myself? Do I dull the edges of joy because deep down I don’t feel like I deserve it?
Here’s what I do know: my idea of safety in a partner has changed. My non-negotiables have changed. And I can’t ask someone who knew an old version of me to change if they don’t want to.
So here I am, writing this from a bench by my van, looking out at a coastal California city. Full of emotions, full of contradictions, but also full of life. And even in all of this, I am, strangely, stubbornly, happy to be here. Happy to be alive.
Love,
Dylan
