The Moment I Knew Things Had to Change

The air is thick and stagnant at home as if it's pressing in from every corner. The house is filled with things—stuff collected over the years, held onto out of fear, sentiment, or the nagging thought that I might need them someday. It's a mind of scarcity I've lived with for as long as I can remember, clinging to objects like they might be ripped away at any moment. I tell myself the clutter fills a void, but it mirrors how stuck I've been—unable to do the things that make me happy, trapped by the relentless heat and a life that no longer fits.

Losing my dog shattered what little sense of peace I had left. It was like when he was gone, the tiny bit of me that remained disappeared with him. The days became heavier, dragging on in a suffocating loop of sameness. I stopped wanting to leave the house and stopped believing I could feel joy again.

And then came Santa Cruz.

For three days, my wife and I returned to the place we once loved—to see a friend, escape the heat, and maybe catch a breath. I hadn't expected to feel much, but the moment we arrived, the sea breeze welcomed me like an old friend I hadn't realized I missed so deeply. The air was soft and briny, with a whisper of forest humus beneath it—a scent that felt like home. My skin, usually dry and tight like a parched leaf, finally felt moist and alive again, like an amphibian sinking into the water it had desperately needed. The breeze was gentle but exciting, tugging at me as if to say, 'Come back to life.' And I felt something close to joy for the first time in so long.

We spent hours on the beach, just being. I sat in the sand, feeling perfectly supported by it, while my wife ran up and down in the surf. The steady sound of the waves—sure, calming, constant—kept me anchored in the moment. As I watched a man flying a frog-shaped kite, the kite twirled and danced in the sky, full of color and life. It looped gracefully, almost like a part of the wind, moving where it wanted to go without resistance.

Then my wife turned toward me, running back from the water, and I saw her face—lit up with pure joy, the kind I hadn't seen in her for so long. Her smile wasn't just happiness; it was freedom. Something cracked open inside me as I watched her—a deep part of me that had been hidden away for too long.

This was what life was supposed to feel like. Light, joyful, connected. Sitting in the breeze, breathing in the ocean air, and feeling like everything heavy had washed away. I felt like myself again—like I'd finally come home.

But then, as quickly as it had come, it was time to leave.

Driving away from the coast, I felt like I was stuffing that part of myself back into a box, slamming the lid shut to keep it safe. The farther we got from the ocean, the more the landscape shifted—the cool, salty air turned dry and acrid. The scent of pine and brine was replaced by something unpleasant, bitter, and industrial. Traffic jammed up along the freeway, and every mile took us closer to the clutter and lifelessness I knew too well.

It hit me hard: This is what I was coming back to. A life filled with things I don't need, stale air, and routines that wear me down. A dry, smelly existence where joy feels like a distant memory. I realized then that I couldn't live like this anymore.

As we pulled into the driveway, the weight settled back onto me—the familiar heaviness of disappointment and sadness. My depression crept in, whispering that nothing could change, that this joy I'd tasted was out of reach. But I knew I couldn't believe that anymore. I couldn't stay stuck. I wanted what we'd had in Santa Cruz—freedom, connection, joy—and I wanted it every day.

Maybe we're stuck here for now—with her job and our house tethering us to this place. But now I know what we're working toward. A new home in a coastal forested town where we can live simply and fully, where joy isn't an occasional visitor but part of everyday life. Until then, we'll keep making small changes—letting go of what doesn't serve us, creating space for what truly matters, and finding joy in the little moments. It may not be perfect, and it won't always be easy. We can start where we are. There's still meaning to be found in small efforts—whether decluttering our space, planting native flowers in the garden, or creating little moments of joy whenever we can. This is the beginning of that journey

I don't know how it will unfold, but I do know this: we'll find our way, one small step at a time, and that will be enough.