I’ll be honest: I’ve been feeling a little guilty about not writing as much lately. Like I’ve been neglecting this part of myself, or maybe neglecting you, whoever’s on the other side of these words. Writing has always been my way of processing, of making sense of what’s happening inside me, and lately I just… haven’t been doing it. I tell myself it’s because I’m busy, because I’m tired, because life is full. But the truth is, I miss it. I miss this.
There are seasons of life where everything feels like it’s moving in all directions at once. Some seasons, that chaos feels overwhelming, like the wheels are spinning out from under me. But this one? This one actually feels good.
I’ve been working a lot, which is tiring but steady. I have my morning meetings, though if I’m being honest, I’ve been missing more of them lately because I wake up already exhausted. Surfing has been a whole new chapter, equal parts thrilling and humbling. My muscles ache in places I didn’t know could ache, my feet are cut up from rocks, and I’m constantly either sunburned or salty. But I love it. I love it because it makes me feel like I’m learning something hard and worthwhile, like I’m building a relationship with the ocean one wave at a time.
And then there are my friends. Hanging out with them feels like something I’ve been missing for a long time. It’s not just “plans” or “social obligations”. It’s the kind of connection that fills me up. Sometimes it’s a campfire, sometimes it’s a long drive up Highway 1, sometimes it’s a dumb card game that turns into hours of laughter. They don’t even realize how much they’re helping me. They just… exist alongside me in these moments, and suddenly I’m not so alone in my head.
What’s moved me most is how thoughtful they are about where I’m at in life. They know I’m sober, and they meet me there with so much respect. No pressure, no side comments, just genuine care. They’ll even check in with me about drinks: “You cool if we grab a beer?” Small gestures like that mean more than I can explain. At one point I joked with a buddy, “Maybe I’ll join you for a beer.” He didn’t even blink. He just laughed and told me if he ever saw me with one in my hand, he’d knock me out. That’s love. That’s friendship in its best, truest form, knowing my story and protecting it right alongside me.
And maybe that’s why I’ve been thinking about my mom lately. When we were younger, anytime there was a gathering, she’d pause everything for a photo. Or stage one. My brothers and I would groan and roll our eyes and tell her to just live in the moment. We didn’t understand why she couldn’t just sit in it, why she always had to capture it. And now, I get it. I feel that urge in my own way. As a mother, how intense that must have been… this need to freeze her children in time, to hold onto proof that we were there, together, laughing, growing. Now, when I feel that pull to write down every thought, to translate every joy and ache into words, I can see her in myself. And I can also see why sometimes for me, it’s too much. Why sometimes you have to let yourself simply live it.
That’s the thing! I’ve spent years being alone in my head. Writing, reflecting, analyzing everything. And while I love creating and capturing feelings in words, I’m realizing that living fully doesn’t always leave room for constant reflection. Sometimes I want to write about everything I’m feeling in the moment, but then I get swept away in the living of it instead. There’s a part of me that feels guilty about that, like I’m neglecting my art. But there’s also a deeper part that feels relieved. Like maybe I don’t always have to translate my joy or grief into words for it to be real. Maybe just feeling it is enough.
I haven’t painted in months, and I tell myself I want to, but I don’t sit down and make the time. I leave little notes in my phone, half-poems, lines I want to revisit, seeds of stories. And sometimes that’s all they stay: little reminders that something mattered to me in the moment. And maybe that’s okay too.
What I’ve been careful about is not turning every deep conversation or emotional breakthrough into “content.” Some of my most meaningful moments lately have been with friends, and I don’t want to cheapen them by breaking them apart into paragraphs. Not every truth needs to be put under a spotlight. Some things are meant to live and breathe between people, not audiences.
And so here I am, caught between two instincts: wanting to capture everything, and wanting to let myself just live. Every time I sit down to write again, I feel like I owe some apology for not being consistent. But honestly? I’m done apologizing. I’m not sorry.
I’m not sorry for being out here, alive, tired, sunburned, happy, grieving, laughing, and trying. I’m not sorry for letting my art be messy and irregular. I’m not sorry for choosing real experiences over perfectly polished stories.
Because the truth is, I’m not just trying to write stories. I’m living one. It’s full of joy, chaos, mistakes, gratitude, and all the contradictions of being human.
So thank you. Thank you to the people who reach out, who remind me they’re reading, who remind me they care. Thank you to my friends who show up in laughter and card games and late-night conversations, who ask the small questions that remind me I’m seen. Thank you to my job, my dog, the ocean, the tiny routines that hold me together, and the waves that keep humbling me.
I don’t know what rhythm my writing will take from here. It won’t be consistent, and it won’t be neat. But it will be genuine. And in the meantime, I’ll keep doing what I came here to do: live. And maybe, when the words come, I’ll write them. But if they don’t, if it takes a while, that’s okay too. Because now I understand my mom in a way I didn’t before: sometimes capturing is love, but sometimes living it is enough. And neither one needs an apology.