The Value In Who I Am

I was reminded today, or rather encouraged to reflect on what it means to be valued.

Not for what I can offer, or what I can do for someone, but for simply being who I am.

A friend recently told me she wanted me to be present back home in Indiana for her birthday. I was sharing this with another friend of mine and she invited me think about it like this: she wanted me there. Not because of what I could bring to the table, not because she needed me to organize or entertain or show up with the right words. She wanted me there because I’m me. Because my presence means something.

That stopped me for a second. Then continued to fill my mind in ways I suppose I haven’t thought a lot about. It’s so easy to get caught up in being useful. To try and define my worth by what I can contribute. Especially, lately, as my job search fills my days. Sometimes I’ve felt like I have to earn my place in people’s lives through effort, energy, or empathy. But in this moment, it reminded me that the people who truly care don’t love me for what I offer. They love me because of who I am when I’m just there.

No performance. No fixing. No proving. Just being.

There’s something healing about directing my thoughts to that. That I can show up as myself, messy, quiet, thoughtful, tired, curious. That’s still enough. Maybe that’s what real connection is, when presence alone has value.

I’m beginning to believe that I’m worth being around. Not in a self-centered, ego type of way. But in a way that combats the need to always be useful. Always be best at something.

I think somewhere along the way I convinced myself that love had to be earned. That being wanted was conditional. That if I wasn’t showing up doing something, making people laugh, offering advice, being the strong one, then maybe I wasn’t worth showing up for at all.

But that IS the lie I’ve been living under. Maybe people actually see me. The quiet parts. The in-between parts. The version of me that doesn’t always have the right words or the right energy. Maybe that version still matters.

It’s strange, isn’t it? That value doesn’t always come from motion. That stillness has worth too. Just existing, breathing, listening, sitting beside someone, can mean just as much, if not more, than all the noise we try to fill the space with.

I’ve spent so much of my life trying to earn my belonging. Trying to prove I deserve my seat at the table. But lately, I’m learning that some people just pull out a chair for you without asking anything in return. And that, that’s something sacred.

So I’ll continue practicing. Learning.

Letting myself take up space without guilt. Letting myself be seen without performing. Letting myself be enough, even in silence.

Because being valued doesn’t have to mean doing

It just means being, and being loved all the same.

The Desert Road

I had a bad dream last night.

One of those that feels so real you wake up still half inside it. I don’t remember exactly how it started, just that something happened and there was a fight. Then I was driving. Alone.

The road turned into this endless desert highway. Flat, bright, empty. The kind of silence that hums. I remember the wheel jerking in my hands, a sudden dip in the road, and then the van slammed down hard. The whole front crunched in. My phone shattered. I couldn’t move.

I was pinned there, staring out at nothing. No cars. No people. Just sand and sky and that feeling of being completely stuck. Like I could scream for hours and no one would ever hear me.

When I woke up, I was crying. Real tears, shaky breathing, throat sore, heart pounding so hard it hurt. It took me a minute to figure out where I was. To remind myself I was safe. That it was just a dream.

But it didn’t feel “just” like anything. It felt like my brain was showing me something I’ve been too afraid to say out loud … That deep, quiet fear of being stranded in my own life. Of working so hard to build something out of the wreckage and still worrying it could all collapse.

I think that’s what the crash was about. Not the van itself, but the fear of losing the progress I’ve made. Of hitting some hidden dip and realizing I’m right back where I started.

Still, I woke up. That counts for something. My mind didn’t let me stay stuck there. It pulled me back before it got worse, like it knew I’d had enough.

I sat there for a while after, breathing. Feeling for the walls of the van next to my bed. Reminding myself, this is now, that was then.

And maybe that’s the point. I’ve already survived the hardest parts. Even when it feels like I’m crashing, I somehow wake up. I always wake up.

Where Is My Future?

I’ve been hustling, recovering, and trying to figure out this chapter of my life for seven months now. And honestly? It’s been one of the hardest periods of my life. I don’t know what I’m doing, or where I’m going. There are so many paths, so many outcomes, that I can’t quite see which one belongs to me.

It’s both beautiful and terrifying to see the future open wide in front of me. There’s freedom in it, sure, but also this heavy feeling of not knowing where any of it leads.

I hurt. I was hurting. And in that pain, I destroyed parts of myself… and others. These days, I’m trying to heal, to make my amends, to make sure I never become that version of myself again. And with that comes this deep need to become something new. To build a future. To have a path that feels like it belongs to me.

My work history is as scattered as my thoughts, bits and pieces of retail, customer service, sales, always centered around people. But lately, a different part of me has been waking up. A part that wants to build something real, something physical.

After a transformative summer in Santa Barbara, I’m not ready for it to end, but as my seasonal job winds down, I can feel the next transition calling. So, I’ve been asking myself: what’s next?

And then, kind of out of nowhere, the thought hit me:
What if I became an RV tech?

I know. It sounds random. But hear me out.

I live in a van. I’ve been slowly modifying Oscar, my ‘91 Dodge, to make him more livable, and it’s been oddly fulfilling. Learning how things work. Fixing what breaks. Figuring out how to make this weird, beautiful, messy lifestyle a little easier.

In a few weeks, I’ll be road-tripping back to Indiana to stay with family for a bit. No work lined up on the coast this winter, and yeah… I’m anxious about it. California van life is stunning, but it’s also expensive. Survival mode has a way of forcing clarity, though.

So, I’ve been looking into trade schools, technical training, and ways to get hands-on experience. Because honestly, it feels kind of amazing to think about having tangible skills, something measurable, something useful. I could help others like me, people living this life full-time, trying to make it work, one repair at a time.

I still love working with people. I love communication, empathy, leadership. But finding management work that doesn’t burn me out has been tough, and maybe that’s a sign to shift directions.

For now, these are just wild ponderings about who I could become, and what I could create. Maybe it’s not my forever path, but it feels like a solid step toward something.

Anywayyyyy, until next time, homies.

— Dylan

The Thin Line Between Solitude and Isolation

It’s hard to tell when I actually need to be alone and when I’m just running away again. I tell myself I’m doing “introspection,” like it’s some noble act of self-reflection, when half the time it’s just me sitting in silence convincing myself I’m okay with it. I like to think I’m self-aware enough to know when I’m isolating, but that’s the trick, isn’t it? Isolation always disguises itself as clarity until it’s too late.

There are moments where solitude feels like medicine. The kind where you finally hear your own thoughts uncluttered. You breathe, you process, you rebuild. Then there are the other times, when being alone feels like sitting in an echo chamber of your own doubt. Your own fear. The quiet gets loud. Your thoughts start looping on repeat, and every attempt to find peace turns into self-interrogation. It’s funny how both healing and self-destruction can wear the same mask.

Sometimes I crave stillness because the world feels too sharp, and sometimes I crave it because I don’t trust myself not to say something I’ll regret. But then I’ll sit there, alone, scrolling, overthinking, and realize maybe what I really needed wasn’t solitude. it was connection. A walk with someone who doesn’t need me to perform. A hug that lasts just a few seconds longer than usual. A reminder that being seen doesn’t always mean being exposed.

I don’t always trust that inner voice that says, “You need space.” Because sometimes it’s not space I need. It’s softness. Sometimes it’s not distance. Its presence. I’m still learning the difference between hiding to protect myself and withdrawing to find myself. One makes me smaller. The other makes me whole. And the line between the two is thinner than I’d like to admit.

Lighted and Extinguished

From my Notes App October 7th:

Today while surfing, I got out of the water after only an hour. My body was still paddling, but my mind had gone somewhere else entirely. Dislodged. Disconnected. It was like my spirit stayed bobbing out there in the lineup while I drifted back to shore on autopilot. I tried to ground myself… to feel the pull of the waves, the rotation of the earth beneath me, the steady inhale and exhale of the tide. None of it helped.

So I got out. Sat cross-legged on the sand. Let the ocean speak in that language it has, loud but wordless, and tried to meditate.

That’s when my thoughts began to unravel in directions I didn’t expect. Lately, I’ve been circling around some deep life questions, ones that feel heavier than usual. The kind that press on my chest and ask not what do you want, but who do you want to be. There are choices in front of me that feel monumental. ones that could bend the shape of my future. And there are choices behind me that I’ve been trying to release, but they still echo.

Somewhere in the stillness, a line from Seneca’s Moral Letters to Lucilius surfaced out of the chaos:

“We mortals also are lighted and extinguished.”

I don’t know why it landed so hard. Maybe because I’ve been trying, really trying, to practice gratitude. To actually choose joy where I can. To celebrate other people’s wins as freely as my own. But this line brought me back to something more primal than happiness. Something quieter.

We have beginnings and ends. So do the people we love. So do the seasons of our lives. Everything we experience, all the heartbreaks, the brief loves, the reinventions, they’re just the flicker in between. And for some reason, that feels both terrifying and comforting.

If before the start I was at peace, then maybe peace is where I return when it’s done. That thought sat heavy in me, but not in a dark way. It was more like recognition. The way the tide always comes back, no matter how far it pulls away.

Maybe the point of it all , the being “lighted”, isn’t to resist the extinguishing. Maybe it’s to live fully in the glow while we have it. To do and feel everything, except fear of the end.

I’ll be honest, I don’t have a neat conclusion to these thoughts. They’re still tumbling around in my head. But I think there’s something true in letting yourself sit in the not-knowing. In trusting that peace isn’t something to chase. it’s something to return to.

So today, I’m leaving the beach without answers. Just sand in my hair, and weirdly in my ears, and that line still echoing in my head:

“We mortals also are lighted and extinguished.”

My Own Unreliable Narrator

Life has always felt like duality. A gift and a curse. There are beautiful moments scattered between destruction. For a long time, I only focused on the chaos. I built a dark world and lived inside it alone, hurting myself and the people around me. Breaking that pattern meant giving up a lot, learning to search for strength where none seemed to exist.

I was hurt. I was broken. In ways I’m still trying to understand. I didn’t deserve the weight I carried. Trapped in my own head, circling darkness with no grip. Consequences didn’t matter, because life itself didn’t matter. It was emptiness, and in that emptiness, I felt gone.

Memory is a tricky narrator. In film and TV, we’re told to either trust the narrator or accept that they can’t be trusted. But a narrator can only ever tell their own version of events… their perspective, emotionally skewed, one-sided, serving the story they want to tell. Until it’s challenged.

My own narrative convinced me I was already lost, and in believing that story, I made choices that pushed me further into that loss. It was self-fulfilling. A way to say, “See, I told you so.”

I don’t trust that narrative anymore. But I am trying to trust myself. My thoughts. My feelings. To be strong enough to stand on my own. Less fragile. Less volatile. Less afraid.

I can’t be good for anyone if I can’t be good for myself. I don’t know exactly how to get there. But I have to figure it out. I have to.

This isn’t just a story of hurt. It’s the story of learning to listen after being my own unreliable narrator. The story of unlearning self-sabotage and rebuilding a life I can stand inside without crumbling.

And maybe, in that rebuilding, there’s room for hope.

“Open To Opportunities”

The truth is, I don’t just want a job. I want work that makes me feel alive.

I want to wake up and know that the hours I pour into something matter. That I’m not just keeping the gas tank full but helping build something I can believe in. Something that makes me proud to say, “This is what I do.”

I’ve spent years learning how to lead, how to listen, how to build trust and guide people through challenges. I know how to turn conflict into collaboration, how to be the calm when things feel chaotic, and how to help people grow. That’s my gift. But finding the right place to put that gift to use? That’s been the hard part.

Job searching feels endless sometimes. Like shouting into the void. I send out applications and hope one lands somewhere human, somewhere real. What I want is work that aligns with who I am, not just what’s on my résumé.

If I could live off writing, creating, and building my own projects, I would. And maybe one day I will. But I can’t shake the feeling there’s still something more out there for me. A role, a team, a mission that needs exactly what I have to give.

Living in my van has taught me freedom. It’s made remote work not just a dream, but almost a necessity. And yet, what matters most to me isn’t where I work from, it’s what I’m working toward.

Sometimes I feel like I’m running out of time. But maybe that urgency is just the reminder I need, that life is short, and the right work is worth fighting for.

If you know of opportunities where people, purpose, and creativity meet. I’d love to hear from you. Because I’m ready. More ready than ever.

Where Do I Even Start?

I live in a place of beginnings. Santa Barbara. Ventura. Oxnard. Names that feel small on a map but heavy when you know what’s been born here. Patagonia was dreamed up here. Deckers grew into a giant here. Reef sandals, Toad&Co, even Avasol sunscreen. It all started between the cliffs and the ocean, in garages and small shops, in the hands of people who wanted more than just a paycheck. They wanted to live differently.

Everywhere I turn, there’s a story about someone who caught a wave or stitched a jacket and unknowingly created a movement. They weren’t just selling things. They were selling a way of being in the world… barefoot, salt-stained, chasing freedom. They were saying, this is what life can look like.

And sometimes, that truth lands like a gift. I feel it in my chest when I’m driving my van down the PCH, staring at the ocean like it might hand me the answer. I think, if they could start here, then maybe so can I. Maybe I don’t have to wait for perfect conditions. Maybe I just have to start.

Other times, it cuts me. Living in the shadow of so many firsts can feel like walking through a museum where everyone else’s work is on display but mine. I wonder if I’m already behind. If my chance passed while I was too tangled in my own storms. addiction, heartbreak, starting over in the shell of a van. I think about all the time I lost to chaos. And it hurts to imagine that my beginning might never measure up to the weight of the ones around me.

But lately, I’ve been realizing beginnings don’t always look like companies or empires. Sometimes they’re quieter, less polished. Sometimes a beginning is just writing something down instead of bottling it up. Or choosing not to drink when the voice in my head tells me I deserve to numb out. Sometimes a beginning is pulling paint across a canvas on the floor of a van, not knowing if it will matter to anyone but me.

And maybe that’s the kind of beginning I want. Not to be the next Patagonia. Not to stamp my name on fleece or boots. But to create a life that feels like mine, fully. A life where my work is honest, where my days don’t feel wasted, where I can wake up and say… this is it. This is the life I wanted to live.

Being here has shown me that beginnings don’t have to be loud or perfect. They just have to be claimed. All those legends started with someone choosing to try. That’s the thread I can follow. My own beginning doesn’t need a logo. It just needs me to keep showing up, keep writing, keep trying, even when the ocean of history around me feels overwhelming.

Because maybe what I want isn’t to outshine the people who came before. Maybe what I want is to stand beside them. Not in comparison, but in kinship. To say: I was here too. I started something too. And even if it only matters to a handful of people, or just to me, that’s enough.

So where do I begin? Right here. Again and again. Until one day I look up and realize my beginning has already become the life I was searching for.

Letter To Myself

Hey Dyl-pickle…

I’ve been thinking about you a lot.

The way you carried all that weight on your shoulders,

pretending you were fine when your hands were shaking.

I wish I could sit across from you right now,

slide you a snack,

and tell you it’s not always going to feel like this.

You’re going to grow through things you never imagined.

heartbreak that feels like it might kill you,

love that teaches you both how to give and how to let go,

loneliness that carves you open and somehow makes room for something new.

It won’t be easy.

Sometimes you’ll hate me for the choices I made.

Sometimes you’ll wonder why we had to keep going at all.

But here’s the truth:

we do make it through.

Not clean, not without scars,

but we keep moving.

And every scar has a story worth keeping.

You’ll learn that surviving is not the same as living,

and little by little, you’ll remember how to live.

You’ll laugh again, really laugh

the kind that leaves your ribs sore.

You’ll find home in unexpected places,

sometimes in people,

sometimes in silence,

sometimes in yourself.

I want you to know something I didn’t always believe…

I love you.

Not for what you achieve,

not for who stays beside you,

not for the mask you wear to get through the day.

I love you because you’re me,

and somehow, through all of it,

you kept going long enough for me to write this down.

We’re not perfect.

We’re not finished.

But we are okay.

And one day, that will be enough.

Love ya,

Us, now.

Livin’ in a Van, Sans the River

So here’s what I know after almost five months in the van. Life’s different. Sometimes easier, sometimes harder. Kinda weird to describe.

On one hand, I’m in total control of all of it. On the other hand… not at all. I get the freedom to just go where I want, see what I want, be where I want. It feels pretty amazing to travel with my whole house attached. But also the longer I live in Oscar the more I realize how much stuff I still have. Like… why do I have so many shoes ? I don’t even wear shoes to work. Every week I find something else to donate or toss.

The van itself, yeah, it’s still half-finished. A real “makeshift conversion” situation. And I’ve made it work, but I have a whole dream list of things I’d love to do inside. Sometimes that bums me out, not having the space or the money yet. But eventually I’ll get there. Until then, it’s a lot of improvising. And honestly? I’m kinda used to it now.

Van life online is always two extremes. It’s either the dreamiest sunset freedom vibes or the nightmare “where do I poop?” stuff. I live both. Some days I joke that I’ll never live in a house again, and I halfway mean it. The financial freedom blows my mind. But yeah… I miss certain comforts too. (Relationship stuff definitely plays into that but we’re not going there today.)

Here’s what people don’t post about as much: how much brain power goes into just figuring out where to sleep safely every night. Or how showers get scheduled like dentist appointments. Or how groceries are basically a game of Tetris because I’ve got no storage space. And cooking? Don’t even get me started. My “countertop” is literally the stovetop, so I have to chop everything first, then cook it, because once the burner’s on… boom, no workspace left.

And because I work and pretty much live at the beach, sand is just a permanent part of my décor now. I should clean the floor more often but… I don’t. Laundry is a once-a-week laundromat situation. And yeah, while expenses are lower than a house, they’re not zero. Gas, parking, food, laundry, phone and internet… it adds up.

But even with all of that, I’ve found parts of myself here I thought I lost. And parts I never knew were in me. I really do love the life I’m creating. I kinda have to, it’s what I’ve got right now. And honestly, I’m proud of making something of it.

Six months ago I was so wrapped up in what I thought mattered… status, material stuff, all the outside noise. But van life has stripped a lot of that away. My needs are met. And what I want now isn’t material. It never should’ve been.

Before Oscar I thought I was missing out on so much. But truthfully? I was only missing two things. Myself, and passion.

I’m still figuring out my goals, still trying to nail down some kind of purpose. But for who I am and who I’m becoming. this feels like the right road. The long highways. The forests. The coastal pull-offs. Even the Walmart parking lots. And as cheesy and cliché as it sounds, it really is the friends I’ve made along the way.

Alright, that’s enough out of me.

Journal Entry 9/12 - restructured conversation.

I wish I could be there every day. Not to fix anything or try to rewrite the story, just to sit with what’s here. To let the day be what it is instead of twisting it into what could have been. I try to stay present, but my head still drifts… Imagining ways it might have worked, how we might have stayed happy, stayed a family. But it’s hard. Honest things usually are.

I’ve carved out this life here. Rough at first, then slowly smoothed into something that feels like mine. Sometimes I wish I could hand it to you, like a small gift. Here, this is what I’ve made. It feels like a fresh start, like all the rooms in my head have been repainted. Furniture rearranged. Lighter. Easier to breathe.

But I don’t say much, because I don’t want it to sound like I’m happier without what was. That’s not true. It’s more complicated than that. Grief and gratitude live side by side. Memory and hope share the same kitchen. So instead of bragging or announcing every little thing, I let the small wins glow quietly, like candles in a window.

The old life still tugs at me sometimes. The bars, the clubs, the beaches, all of it fueled by alcohol. Some nights were fun, sure. But mostly it was sameness. A way of not thinking. That part of me was stuck, heavy, unmoving. I can’t go back to that. Not now, not ever. It makes whole places feel too tight to breathe, because they remind me of who I let myself become.

What I want now is growth. Not the shiny, social media version. Just the small kind. Killing off my ego a little more each day. Wanting less. Needing less. Learning how to sit still and actually feel content with what’s already in front of me.

And I’m not “waiting on” anyone. That’s not it. I’m just keeping my head clear. No dating, no distractions, no noise. Nothing romantic or sexual. I don’t want it. I want to finally be okay in silence. Okay being alone in my own head without reaching for someone to fill the space. It’s been a long time since I felt that way.

And here’s what I’ve learned. No one person should hold everything sacred in my life. I used to lean so hard on one connection to carry all of it: my joy, my pain, my secrets, my future. That weight bent me, and it bent others too. It wasn’t fair. Now I see how much I need friendships, chosen family, people who each hold a piece. A net of closeness instead of one fragile rope. That’s how I want to live. That’s how love becomes lighter instead of breaking us.

More than anything, I want ease. To talk without fighting. To share without armor. To have some version of what we once had, without the collisions. Because there’s still so much love and history there. And I think that will always matter.

The work of simplifying isn’t glamorous. It’s saying no to the pull of old habits. It’s letting myself sit with discomfort. It’s small things stacking up. A sober morning, a page written, an honest call returned, a night of real sleep. They look small, but they add up. They’re how I know I’m actually changing.

If I could wish for anything right now, it would be peace. Peace for me. Peace for the people who have been part of my story. Rest that feels real. Friendships that spread out the weight of living, instead of dumping it all on one person. Growth that doesn’t need to be loud to be real.

I wish I could show someone this life I’ve built. Not to prove anything, not to fix the past, but just to let the present be seen. For now, I’m learning that sharing doesn’t have to mean giving everything away. Sometimes it just means passing along what’s true, stripped down, steady.

Not rescue. Not performance. Just the pieces left after the pruning.

A Guest of the Sea

I used to be afraid of the sea. Not just of drowning, not just of waves taller than me, but of the open water itself. The infinite stretching past the surface, unfathomable and heavy.

Beneath me, life kept moving in silence… alien grasses swaying, forests of kelp reaching upward, creatures strange and unseen. My imagination never rested. If I couldn’t see the bottom, my mind filled the dark with shadows. I’d panic, heart racing, lungs tightening. I didn’t trust my own body, didn’t trust my arms to remember how to move, how to carry me forward.

Even when I was swimming just fine, I believed I could forget in an instant. Or worse, something rising from the dark could stop me.

Fear can be like that. It doesn’t always care about logic. It invents monsters, even when none exist.

And still, even now, if kelp brushes my foot, a spark of anxiety shoots up my spine. The old fear hasn’t left me completely. But here is the difference, I no longer believe the sea is mine to control.

Instead, I trust myself. I trust my breath, my body, my rhythm. And I trust the water to be what it is. Vast. Unpredictable. Alive.

The ocean is not my world, but it lets me visit. That is enough. That is everything.

And so, I love it. The lakes, the oceans, the waves and weeds and alien lives. Every splash feels like an invitation, a reminder. I am only a guest here. A visitor. And what a gift it is to be allowed.

Maybe that’s the lesson the sea has been trying to teach me all along, not to conquer, not to cling, but to trust, to let go, and to be grateful.

I’ve been learning that same lesson on land, too.

For so long I fought to control my life. My career, my relationships, even my emotions. I thought if I held on tight enough, if I kept swimming hard enough, I could keep the bottom beneath me. But life, like the sea, doesn’t work that way.

When I moved into my van, when I left behind the comfort of routine, when I said goodbye to a version of a relationship I thought would last forever… I was back in deep water. No bottom in sight. My chest tight, my thoughts racing with every shadow of doubt.

But somewhere in that fear, I remembered what the sea taught me. I don’t need to control everything. I just need to trust myself to float, to breathe, to move forward.

I am a guest here, too. On this earth, in this body, in this season of life. And maybe that’s the beauty of it. Every day I get to visit. To learn. To love. To try again.

The sea reminds me that uncertainty doesn’t have to mean danger. It can mean possibility. It can mean wonder.

And so I keep swimming.

This Is What It Feels Like

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.

Between Surfboards and Ghosts

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

Campfire

It’s easy for sparks to be mistaken for something bigger. A glow can feel like a promise, a flame like a direction. But I’m not trying to lead anyone anywhere. I’m just here, a small fire flickering in the dark, offering a place to rest for a moment.

There’s something in showing up without asking for anything, without burning too bright or demanding attention. Just existing in a space and letting the warmth exist too, without expectation, without claim.

I wonder how often people confuse comfort for possession, presence for attachment. And I wonder how often I do too.

Being a campfire means choosing to burn softly, choosing to let the night be felt, choosing to offer light without expecting it to change anything. That’s what I want, anyway… to be a little light, steady enough to see by, and nothing more.

Recognizing the Pull.

Sometimes the smallest magnets teach the biggest lessons. A brief conversation, a shared laugh, a quiet presence. These things pull just enough to be felt, without dragging you off course. They’re subtle, easy to miss, and yet they leave marks on the way you move through life if you pay attention.

I’ve learned to notice the gentle pulls, the magnetic moments that exist without overwhelming. To recognize when a connection draws near just enough to be meaningful, but not so much that it consumes. Attraction, emotional or otherwise, isn’t limitless, and closeness isn’t always an invitation to merge. Sometimes the pull is meant only to be felt, and that’s enough.

It’s funny how often life mistakes intensity for importance. We assume the strongest pulls are the most important, that if it tugs hard enough, it must matter most. But I’ve found that the gentlest magnets, the ones that barely shift you, barely draw you in. It can teach the most about boundaries, about patience, about presence. They remind you that connection doesn’t have to be overwhelming to be real.

I think about the ways I’ve pulled others toward me, and how others have pulled me. Some forces were too strong, dragging and leaving tension in their wake. Others were steady, subtle, felt without strain. The difference isn’t always obvious in the moment. Sometimes it takes reflection to see which pulls left you tangled and which left you aligned.

And sometimes the most important lesson is this: a magnet’s pull doesn’t have to consume to be meaningful. It can guide, direct, and remind you where to stand. You can feel it, respond, and then step away without guilt or fear. That’s how boundaries and care coexist. That’s how we survive, and sometimes thrive, in a world that often confuses force with closeness, tug with connection.

So I try to remember that when I’m near others, and when they’re near me. I try to notice the pulls that are steady, the subtle attractions that matter, and the forces that ask too much. Sometimes, that’s all the growth you need: knowing which magnets to feel, which to step around, and which to simply watch at a distance, appreciating the quiet guidance they offer.

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.