Summer Grounding - notes on heat, healing & holding on

I wake up to the sound of classical music set to my alarm and make a tired gesture to swipe the icon and turn it off as fast as possible.It’s a work morning. I worked last night too, and I can feel the light burn in my eyes from not getting enough rest as I try to pry them open. I slip one leg out from under my white bamboo sheets, then the next, gripping the edge of the bed with both hands to force myself upright.
I usually wake up with numbness moving down the entire right side of my arm. It’s accompanied by a cascading pain, and I can’t quite move my fingers yet. I chug the water on my bedside table, then sleepily shuffle toward the coffee machine.

“Thank you, coffee,” I mumble under my breath as I press the button, watching the hot stream of relief pour into my cup. I’m rooted in gratitude for this small daily pleasure.
The effort of having to wake before my body’s ready launches me into quiet resentment before the day even begins. My body is sweaty—not just from the hot summer night, but because I can’t seem to sleep without the full weight of the heaviest blankets. I also insist on wearing my thick gray fuzzy nightgown with a hood, even when it’s 25 degrees.
My mood isn’t quite sadness—something more wistful. I accept it easily now; there’s a well-worn familiarity between us. It’s that particular kind of longing for something you somehow know is on its way. You don’t know what or when exactly—but you can feel it.
I’ve felt like this for years—but it’s more heightened as of late. As if there’s something more, or something different, that I’m meant to be doing. And if I just have faith, and keep doing my best, it will arrive.
I think part of this wistfulness is tied to how much control I have over how my time is spent. When I have to pour energy into things that don’t carry enough meaning for me, it’s just a drag. That’s the artist in me - the part that craves depth, not just motion.
The closest I ever come to joy is in the midst of a poignant creative moment. Photographing a dish I’m proud of—while the light spills just right through the window. Or I’m on a photography trip, driving with no set plan, and suddenly I come upon a scene that stops me in my tracks. I’ll either slam on the brakes, or—more safely—find a place to turn around, because stopping so abruptly in a car isn’t always advisable.
I also feel joy when I connect with someone who not only gets me, but who inspires me—intellectually and artistically. Someone whose energy allows me to soften into myself. Two people who speak the same language, to me, is something rare and special. I don’t bother sharing with most people - they won’t get it, trust me I have tried. You just can’t translate your soul. The ones who get you respond differently.
But joy and melancholy are bedfellows and occasionally, my mood tips into the latter. Some days lately, it’s been more acute than others - It’s a familiar ache—the kind that follows connection when it fades too soon. I’m used to endings, but I can’t pretend that every time I let go of someone I care about, my spark doesn’t dim a little. I know it will return—but it takes time. My heart sinks into my stomach when I’m in the thick of it. And I suppose I am now.
By the time I publish this post, I’ll already be en route back to my power. I’ve been through hell and back emotionally—this is just another dip in the pool of growth.
I force myself to energetically detach. You’re allowed to care deeply for someone—to love them even—but no matter how much it aches, you still have to put yourself first.
I choose myself.

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Work today will be a predictable blur of hundreds of tourists. From the moment we open at 11:30 until the last order comes in ten hours later, our tiny restaurant will be pumping out food.Maybe you’ve seen a restaurant kitchen on TV—those little white tickets that the orders are printed on are called chits. When the printer starts whirring and clicking (a sound that drives us mad by the end of the day) and the chits start piling up, it’s go time. You get one chance to get it right. Any major mistake is a setback—it costs time, money, and potentially customer satisfaction.
Luckily, attention to detail is what I’m best at, and in a lot of ways, this work suits me. I’ll be on grill today, which is the lead spot in the kitchen—juggling dozens of items at once between the oven, flat top, and pans. The lead keeps the train moving at the right speed. It requires thinking fast, moving fast, pairing orders and tables together when you can, pausing when it makes sense.

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​I often talk about that mysterious pull of the heart.
It happened with him—for the first time in my almost 42 years of life. I’ve dated and connected with enough men to know when something feels different. Usually, men pursue me, and I either run like hell or slowly let them in. That didn’t happen this time.
​
He had a steady, reserved presence that I respected deeply. Without logic or understanding, my body, my mind, my heart all whispered him. There was a quiet magnetism between us—nothing performative, just something new. Maybe a little restrained and uncertain.

I was nervous as hell when we met.

​Before we open for lunch service, I most likely won’t get five minutes to myself—not to pee, refill my coffee/water or grab a snack. I can see people milling about outside the large kitchen window before we are officially open. It will be a fast start.
​When the orders start coming in I’ll likely (depending on the order) get my sandwich and burger buns in the oven, get the fries and salads queued up, press a few burger patties on the flat top—then do a mad dash out of the kitchen to get what I need. The blast of cool air as I walk into the air-conditioned space is instantly satisfying, but I don’t want to acclimate to it. If I do, the kitchen feels even hotter when I return.

I also keep a liter of coffee in the fridge under my station for emergency, along with whatever flavored oat creamer I can find at the store—caramel, hazelnut, or maple brown sugar. It’s a summer thing. A survival thing.
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I’ll ask someone to bring me a glass of ice, then pour the coffee and creamer I’ve squirreled away over top. When my body starts to struggle and the brain fog creeps in, I drink it—quickly. It goes down cold, creamy, and sweet, and then suddenly I feel alive again, jolted back into motion just long enough to cook another string of orders.

I’m a textbook Leo. My personality is bold and bright, and in connection, I lead with passion, truth, and generosity. I’m never trying to outshine anyone—it’s more of an invitation for their light to rise with mine.
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I know who I am. I love the person I’ve become, and I know I deserve to be met with the same kindness and presence I offer. I am unapologetically me, and I refuse to shrink into spaces too small to hold all that I am.

I’ve watched many men meet themselves in my presence—and the truth is, most people aren’t ready to confront their shadows. I’ve met some shadows so dark that I’m proud of myself simply for surviving and seeing them clearly. But luckily, I never have to push the wrong people away. What happens to shadows when they’re flooded with light? They disappear completely.
There’s a space where love isn’t about need or loneliness, but about devotion. To feel I don’t need him—but I love the person I become beside him—feels like a different kind of love. One not based on attachment or expectation.

This kind of devotion becomes a spiritual practice—something greater than ourselves. Turning toward love like this is turning toward God (Source). It’s a sacred becoming between two people.
But it takes two.
So, I choose myself.
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​I reached 480 days of sobriety on Sunday, July 20th. Sunday is also the last day of my work week. By the time it arrives, my nervous system is completely shot. I just don’t have enough downtime to self-regulate throughout the week. I don’t just get tired like other people—my entire system gets overwhelmed.

I’m not sure why. Is it because I’m introverted?

Surely age has something to do with it. I’m not 35 anymore.

Sometimes I’ve wondered if I’m on some kind of spectrum. There was a running family joke at Christmas that I’m autistic. I can’t say for certain I’m not. Neurodivergent, for sure. Sensory overwhelm is a regular part of my life.

I resent that I have to take an Ativan just to get through this last day. By the time I reach the kitchen on Sunday, the bell we ring to alert front-of-house when food is ready feels like knives in my ears. The fast movements of people in and out of the space make me dizzy. The bright lights and heat trigger a low-grade headache. I need time to acclimate.

I shift into leadership mode. I let my coworkers know I’m having trouble audio processing and need focus—and less chatter. Sometimes kitchens get rowdy and loud. It’s not just about camaraderie; it’s survival.
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I hate that this is where I’m at. But it’s not my fault.
​
The kitchen is full of neurodivergent weirdos, so they get it—and we all suffer differently, at different moments, from the heat, the noise, the intensity.

I didn’t tell him exactly how I felt—that it hurt when he put space between us. I didn’t want him to feel bad for being where he was. I wanted him to know it was okay. That I would never judge him for the things he found hard—because there are plenty of things I find hard too. We all need space sometimes.
​I knew there was a lot he didn’t tell me. I knew he was reserved, and I could feel that he and I had both never been loved correctly before. But that part didn’t scare me. I never wanted perfection—only presence.

There was closeness, but still somehow at arm’s length.
It hurt because it felt real—but was rooted in confusion and lacked clarity.
It hurt because I felt slowly, politely erased.
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I choose myself.

The front-of-house staff always arrives a bit later in the morning. I love them all, but I’m always glad to see Maria. She’s in her mid-twenties, and while we’re completely different in many ways—she’s young, loves to party and adventure with lots of friends; I’m introverted, sober, and my adventures are mostly solo—we share a similar disposition and a dark sense of humor that bonds us.

When we cross paths mid-day, we’ll lock eyes, give each other an intense deadpan stare, and keep moving toward our respective tasks. I remember one time our boss noticed and asked her, “What’s that about?” She just laughed and said, “Nothing.” It wasn’t a lie. It’s not about anything in particular—more like an overarching statement about life itself, communicated in the span of five seconds.

The other day, when I left work, she followed me partway to the door.

“Take me with you!!!” she pleaded, as she always does.

“Yes, come to the beach with me. We can go swimming in the ocean together,” I said.

With a giant smile, she replied, “Yes! We can drown ourselves.”
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We both laughed as she went back inside and I continued to my car—grateful for this moment that let me embrace the darker parts of myself, rather than shroud them in toxic positivity.

​I can’t help it—I see people through the lens of compassion. Their good qualities, yes, but always--always—their unspoken pain. I understand people even when they don’t speak the words.
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Sometimes, I can’t help but pour love into a man I care about. When I see his humanity. When I see his brilliance. When I see God in him. I can see the version of him he won’t allow anyone to bear witness to. The gaps in his healing.

It becomes painful—heartbreaking—when the walls stay up, and the person I want to be close to won’t let me in.

The thing is, I loved how his gaps held up a mirror to my own. How I could see myself more clearly—the edges I needed to soften, or break through. I felt, deeply, that this was a gift we could give each other… if we had both chosen to say yes to that growth.

But make no mistake—if someone I care about can’t meet me where I’m at, I might get hurt. I might break for a while.

But I always come back to myself.

Sometimes, I think I rise out of sheer spite.
My softness is built on strength.

​I choose myself.

At the restaurant, we had a table walk out after waiting 45 minutes for their food. We were very busy. There was a delay getting the order in, and a miscommunication from the front of house. This doesn’t happen often—we’ve gotten more efficient at managing the influx of tourists.

We’ve grown a lot over the past few years, and with that growth came the need to adapt. New systems and procedures have helped us manage the flow with more consistency. We were plating their food as they got up to leave. A frustrating moment.

In situations like this, I always wish customers could show a little more understanding and compassion—for the people in the kitchen doing their best under pressure. Sometimes, things just happen. When you go out to eat, try to remember: there are cooks back there who maybe haven’t stepped off the line in hours. Despite everyone’s best efforts, shit still happens.

We were laughing another day about a customer who said, “I’ll have what the chef had for lunch.” I snapped a photo. French fries and black coffee. Peak performance fuel. I hadn’t had time to meal prep - or even stop long enough to make something healthy. When anyone in the kitchen needs a boost, someone will just yell, “Can I get some snack fries?” And we meet the request with the urgency it deserves. 

When the unhappy customers left, I was still on the line—sweating, tired, sipping electrolytes, my heart racing from the adrenaline of the rush. I paused, briefly, to ruminate on western society. The ingrained urgency. The impatience. The entitlement.
And I thought about Gaza. The ongoing genocide. The forced famine. People dying of starvation. People dying while standing in line at food aid drop-off points—because humanitarian sites are being targeted. Dying, waiting for a bag of flour. Just to eat for the first time in days.
And over here, in the west, forty-five minutes in a busy restaurant sends you over the edge.

​Some people say love isn’t real unless it’s reciprocal—that anything else is just unmet need or attachment. I think that is such a narrow definition of love, and I do not abide by it.

The lasting love I want is reciprocal, of course. But I think any connection will challenge our attachment styles, wounds, and needs—whether it lasts or not. The love that lasts is simply the result of two people who manage to build a bridge between their worlds. I believe love is much broader than one narrow definition. Love flows through everything I do, everything I am.

When I give, when I connect, no matter how imperfectly, I am giving you my love, from my heart. I wouldn’t spend a year getting to know someone without that free-flowing feeling coming from within me. The test of love isn’t whether it stays, but whether it binds someone—or sets them free. If you come, and I love you, and you stay—may it set us both free. If you come, and I love you, and you go—then go in freedom. I send you off with love and grace.

This passage from the spiritual writer and poet Khalil Gibran is my mantra in love.
(His book The Prophet is my personal bible)
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“Let there be spaces in your togetherness,
And let the winds of the heavens dance between you.
Love one another but make not a bond of love:
Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.
Fill each other’s cup but drink not from one cup.
Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf.
Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone,
Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music.”

When I’m sure the evening crew is set up for success, my shift ends.

When I arrive home, I strip off my sweat-soaked work clothes, toss them into the laundry bin, and head straight to the shower. I can still smell fryer grease as I soap up. I welcome the stream of hot water as it washes the day from my skin.
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If it’s hot outside, I’ll throw on my bathing suit and dry off on the deck, giving my body time to decompress from the labor of the day. I pick modest goals if I have a couple of hours before bed—fold some laundry, wipe down a surface or two, water my garden. I put on music and move slowly through the downtime.