The waves crashed against the jagged rocks in almost perfect rhythm as the rest of the ocean pulled back from the shore, taking with it anything in its path. The darkness of the water and the fog-filled air left a gloomy hue on that late September afternoon on the Maine coast. Barely any boats ventured into the dicey waters—the season for sailing was mostly over, and now the roads were filled with tourists like me, eager to witness the changing leaves of New England. My four-year-old ran up and down the beach, splashing into the water, soaking her clothes with frigid water and clumps of sand. After a few laps, she found herself face-down in the sand. Slowly, she got up as I approached her; with only a few tears, she kept running toward the dark, mysterious water.
Earlier in the year, I experienced an earth-shattering heartbreak, one that lingered because he kept coming back, only to leave again. From February to July, I endured a cycle of loss and reconciliation that seemed never-ending. In hindsight, I could have done more to escape the situation earlier, but I couldn’t see what I see now. Even on this late September day, I still had much to learn and would still say hello and goodbye one more time before I finally reached the other side.
In August, I took what was meant to be our “anniversary” trip—though that’s a broad term in this case—as a solo journey through the Utah and Arizona desert. I was terrified, having never been on such a long trip by myself, and I felt unprepared. But what I realized was that I was far more prepared than I thought, and I was more capable than I ever imagined. I shed many tears on that trip, cursed a lot, nearly ran out of money, locked my keys in my rental car, and even spent the hottest night in an off-grid cabin without knowing how to get the generator to work. I faced a lot of failures and hard moments, but those aren’t the memories that stand out. What I remember most are the times I got back up, laughed off the inconveniences, embraced the broken pieces, and found beauty in the present moment, daring not to waste a second of it.
I’ve been fortunate enough to experience some of the most beautiful places—like the slot canyons of Capitol Reef, the Tuolumne Meadows in Yosemite’s High Country, the roaming buffalo in Lamar Valley of Yellowstone, and the crashing waves on a beach in Bar Harbor, Maine. Although these places are wonderful escapes from reality, I’ve learned that the problems we try to run from always find their way back to us. Heartbreak doesn’t cease to exist, the bills don’t disappear, insecurities remain, and we must keep moving forward.
I spent years trying to escape my reality, retreating to the woods or embarking on a new trip to avoid facing my pain. But in the end, I had to confront it—and often that happened in the woods, while solo camping when everything else was quiet. It usually came after a long day of hiking when my need for food, shelter, and water was satisfied, and I was too exhausted to avoid my thoughts. My trips often feature breathtaking views and remarkable moments, but they almost always include a breakdown followed by a push to keep going. I think that’s how life works: it’s not always picture-perfect like in the movies, and sometimes it takes years or even a lifetime to find a true conclusion to the story—but there’s always the push to move forward.
As I watch my daughter relish the beauty of the beach, undeterred by her fall, I’m reminded of a few things. For one, circumstances in life are rarely cut and dry. There’s often a lot of gray area and uncertainty, and sometimes the future will be as foggy and hazy as a New England beach in the fall. Sometimes there’s a lesson in everything, and sometimes there isn’t—there might not be a profound resolution to it all, and that’s okay. Most importantly, you’ll never know if things can get better if you don’t keep going. Life is fleeting, landscapes are constantly changing, and we’ll never have this moment again.
Related Posts
