“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.

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.