Between the Sea and Self-Discovery: A Summer of Reflection and Resilience

All summer, I walk the path between my parents’ condo and the ocean. I leave my cellphone on the kitchen table, needing breaks from the constant noise. Orange dirt stains my toes as squirrels freeze in the cracks of sandstone cliffs, their missions briefly interrupted. All summer, I sort through the tunnels in my head—crossing out certain things with a sharp blue pen, highlighting others.

I listen to feminist podcasts and learn about leaning in and investing. I take notes, respond to emails, write thank you for your consideration and I understand and I appreciate your time. In the bathroom mirror, I whisper:

I am strong.
I am confident.
I am intelligent.

And soon, I start to believe it. I am angry about the time I’ve lost. Angry at all the nos I never said and the laughs I gave away like blankets in a storm. Angry at myself. I write lists of things I wish I’d known at 17 and letters to my younger selves.

…

All summer, I have arguments with strangers in my head, and I say the perfect things. Sometimes in Spanish, but mostly in English, because my words are sharper that way.

I remind myself to be nice to my mom.

I’m thirty, not a teenager anymore. But I fail. I apologize. I keep my distance and hide in romance novels. I drink Diet Cokes instead of wine and sit on the back patio with a paintbrush and a set of rainbow colors. I think of things I want to say, words that could bring us healing after all this time.

But all summer, my mouth is a straight line. I paint trees and rain and a couple with an umbrella that doesn’t quite work.

…

All summer, I sit up gasping for air in that moment before sleep—like slipping off the ledge of a building. Something inside me is trying to get out. It crawls toward the surface when I’m most vulnerable.

I put on Headspace, trying to lull myself to sleep with soothing voices and deep breathing patterns, but my chest is a rope pulling taut. All summer, I swallow what ifs and how tos and a recurring dream that I can’t quite shake. I sit down to write, but I stare at pages of cliché, trite, dull blue. The backspace key stains darker than the rest with oil from my fingers.

I trace the paths that led me back here—to the start. The decisions I made by not making any at all.

The lines, like blue rivers in my skin, point from east to west. The ache in my chest pushes me to look inside, to ask the questions no one else can answer.