I wore it on a first date, and then a third. On these dates, I also wore no makeup. The constant humidity means my face is always dewy and radiant. As uncomfortable as I am walking around in the high sun, the moisture in the air is doing wonders for my skin. Right now, I feel good. Healthy, for the most part. Beautiful.

I’m making the most of summer. Living every day like it’s my last, because in two weeks, I’ll have a hysterectomy.

So it’s time to say yes to pleasure. To swim, run, tan, read, and kiss. I’ll drive up to L.A. to eat oysters with a tall, stunning English woman visiting from London who tells me I’m “ri-DIC-u-lous-ly gorgeous” in her posh accent, which sounds oh so nice. It must be true with an accent like that.

It’s time for a love affair, a little tryst. Why not?

Two weeks to go before a major organ is removed from my body. Before I say goodbye to carrying children. I’ll be laid up for six to eight weeks. Will it be painful? I don’t want to wake up in excruciating pain like before. I’ll make sure to let my doctors know. I can’t do that again. I’m terrified of the pain.

On a FaceTime date, someone tells me having my uterus removed is like losing part of my womanhood. I wonder if she notices the look that crosses my face. The quick contortion of displeasure. What a strange thing to say. I hope she never reaches out again. And she doesn’t.

Around this time, my friend gives me a tarot card reading. She helps me ask the cards if this is a mistake, if I should get a second opinion, but I answer before the cards can. After everything else I’ve tried, this feels like the only option left that might get my life back on track. I can’t keep putting my body through more disappointment, more misery. I need it done.

I draw The Fool, the card of new beginnings, a leap of faith, and infinite potential.

Besides, I can still have children, just not carry them. Do I want to do that anyway? Have I ever dreamed of doing that?

Yes.

I imagined, for myself and my future partner, having children from the same donor, and if money and heartbreak weren’t too big of an issue, they’d carry a child with my egg, and I’d carry a child with theirs.

That was the dream.

But I am sorry, future wife. You get to carry both, if we even have two.

Carry my child. I love you so much. Thank you for doing the work. I will bring you whatever you crave, whenever you want. I will do the diapers. I will clean the mess.

Do this one thing for me, please.

Just carry that baby for me, darling.

Saturday

Before the surgery, my friends come over for a dip in one of the pools at my condominium. They say it feels like a resort. It’s 90 degrees and sweltering. Still, the perfect summer day. Why must we all work jobs? I want to swim instead. I want summer to feel like summer when I was a child, with no worries, no responsibilities, just floating in the pool.

Did you wait 30 minutes after you ate?

Be a good girl. Don’t run.

Remember to apply more sunblock. Have someone get your back.

That’s good.

The sun draws closer. It’s right on us.

We can’t smell the chlorine, but it’s so clean and clear, and we do handstands and somersaults and hold one another in our arms, twirling gleefully, so giddy, like schoolchildren. I’m floating on my back. There’s something so innately childish about swimming, floating, splashing in the pool. It’s healing. This is real summer.

What a beautiful day. What a beautiful weekend. No cares. Just two weeks until surgery.

Now there are actual children in the pool. We tense up. They’re loud. They’re throwing things. We swim to the deep end and hide in the corner. From the barbeque next to the pool, the father yells an apology at us for his children, which I think is funny. They’re just kids. It’s fine. I just want to avoid the basketball they’re throwing in the water. I don’t want to get smacked in the face with a ball.

He’s cooking something deliciously savory and aromatic. The smoke wafts and mixes with the warm, damp air. I can taste the smell of it.

The water is the perfect temperature, heated just right. Like bath water, but still refreshing, easy to wade in. I could stay here all day. But the children are in it now, and I’ve swum enough.

We leave the pool because we’re hungry. We get ramen, and my friend buys me ice cream afterward. The shopping center is packed with screaming children and families. I’m overwhelmed. I ask for a child’s scoop of cherry chip, which is cherry ice cream and dark chocolate chips.

My friend finds it a strange order. “Are you 85?”

But while I defend the flavor, I mostly just wanted to pick the first one I saw. I wanted to step away from the children. They are so loud.

But cute, from afar.

I watch a toddler getting used to their legs. Running and falling and running again without missing a beat, screaming and pointing, “Dog!” at my dog.

I softly yell “Dog!” back.

We’re in agreement.

It is a dog.

Sunday

During the day I can’t breathe, but at night it’s magic. Nothing quite like 80-degree evenings.

I stroll along the bluff with a friend and our dogs, watching the sun dip behind downtown Long Beach. The evening is busy; it seems like everyone living in this city is outside as well, also with their dogs. Hubbell’s legs are too short; she’s swallowed by the grass, but she runs and is happy to be with her dog friends.

Every day I love her more. It hurts. Please don’t die.

When I drive home from the bluff, I take the long way back with the windows down and new Kelela filling the car, dripping out into the night, which is quiet save for the crickets chirping.

This weekend was a good one.

Less than two weeks to go, but in this moment, I’m zenned the fuck out.

I'm running up the hills in my neighborhood with an ease I didn't think possible. I'd forgotten what it felt like to move like this. To really run. To push myself without my heart thumping painfully in my chest, without my legs seizing up, without feeling like I was on empty. I'm at a full sprint now, and I have so much left in the tank that I want to run the loop again. So I do. But I try not to overexert myself. Or at least, I tell myself not to. This is my first week back after a medically required hiatus, so I should take it easy, but I'm eager to feel that runner's high again. Eager to make use of this newfound energy while I have it.

I don't just feel different. I look different, too: my skin glows, my face is flushed with new life, my posture has corrected itself, and the light in my eyes has returned. I've received so many remarks lately about how great I look, which is wonderful (I love compliments), but compared to my corpse-like appearance before, the bar is still pretty low.

Unlike my recent forehead-freezing Botox treatment, the iron infusions and blood transfusion aren’t cosmetic choices, but medically necessary ones. I’m severely anemic, with iron stores so depleted that my doctor ordered all these treatments to help get me back on my feet. Like, literally back on my feet. At one point, I was unable to stand for long periods of time.

Turns out, you really do need all your red blood cells to walk, to talk, to think, to be. These treatments replenished mine, which made me feel alive again. I’ve been so severely anemic for so long now, long enough for it to shrink my life, forcing me to stop doing the things that I love, like running, and making me forget what it feels like to live inside a body that works.

So I run harder than I have for years, over concrete, asphalt, and grass. Up and down giant hills. And I immediately injure myself.

I did something to my achilles, most likely while sprinting at an incline like a joyful idiot. This put me out for another three weeks, no cardio allowed. The injury felt like a deep bruise, and when I tried to put any type of shoe on, it was more of a sharp jab.

Just because I’ve got this new blood coursing through my body doesn’t mean it’s ready to be fully active again. Or at least, not as ready as my mind thinks it should be. I feel this painful rush to get back to my old self and to make up for lost time. A sick body wastes time, shrinks it, making it all the more precious. Making you more aware of how quickly it passes you by.

It’s hard to appreciate your life while your body continues to betray you. But I’m trying.

All the gifts that sobriety gives me—mainly time—feel wasted as I recuperate. What am I doing with all this time? It often feels like nothing. But I’m challenging my body as best I can, giving people my energy when I’m able to, though it often doesn’t feel like enough. So I close in on myself, I see fewer people, I rest. And I rest, and I rest. When I was drinking and using, I self-isolated because I wanted to disappear. Now I self-isolate because my body doesn’t have the energy for anything else. The distinction should comfort me, but it doesn’t. Sobriety gave me my life back, only for illness to make it feel small again.

Since illness—and then injury—pulled me out of my running routine, I’ve started attending AA meetings again. If I can’t run, I need somewhere else to go, somewhere to put all this energy from the infusions, somewhere to let these negative thoughts go. I understand my recovery well enough to know I need that structure, that support outside of myself. I found a group that I love, which surprises me. It’s made up of people in their sixties and seventies, each with decades of sobriety, and every Saturday morning we sit in beach chairs with our coffee on a grassy hill overlooking the ocean and share our lives with each other.

One of the older men in the group, a Brit with an oxygen tank who gets wheeled over the uneven terrain by his nurse, speaks openly about dying and the conversations he’s having with his partner about his end. His face is hard-pressed while he speaks, his voice solemn, his eyes distant, but he always refocuses his attention on us and makes sure to crack a joke or two to lighten the mood. He usually goes well over the designated time to speak, prompting a playful nudge from someone else in the group. Afterward, he appears lighter, and I’m reminded of what makes these meetings so wonderful: they lighten the load when it gets too heavy for one person to carry.

I sit there listening with my dog on my lap, aware that my health is expected to return, though it may feel like a constant series of setbacks. I will get back to my normal. I will run again. My situation is far different from his, because mine is temporary. His body is permanently giving out, and yet he still finds reasons to laugh. He still makes sure we’re smiling.

He’s not doing nothing, and neither am I.

<3

Thank you for celebrating with me by subscribing! So many of you shared your sobriety dates, your congratulations, and little gems of sober advice—it’s been wonderful to read through them all. I also got a few silly comments asking why I share my days, that they don’t care, etc. (two out of hundreds). Those comments tell me the people behind them probably haven’t experienced addiction firsthand. If they had, they’d understand that sharing milestones is a huge part of the work.

Not too long ago, I couldn’t imagine making it past three months without picking up. I stared in awe at people in AA sharing their years, all while I sank further into cravings. Their stories gave me a glimmer of hope that a freer life might be possible, even if my addict brain kept whispering that it wasn’t. Now, I get to share that I am 2.5 years clean—and witness that same awe in others’ faces as I show them what’s possible.

Never doubt that your days are worth sharing, no matter how many there are. It’s all worth sharing—the good, the bad, and the ugly. And that’s what this newsletter is for.

Thank you for being here.

Hi friends!!

This newsletter is long overdue. I aim to publish Sober Gemini once a month (a self-imposed deadline that really only I care about), but I haven’t had a moment in nearly two months to settle, relax, or write, and that’s been making me a little bit miserable.

I moved into a new apartment, which is exciting, but until the other day, I didn’t have internet. Without it, my routine completely fell apart. I’d love to say I don’t need the internet, that I can get by without it for the most part, but I work two remote jobs, so that’s not really possible.

Verizon technicians came and went, one after the other. Each looked at the mess of wires in my closet and said someone else had to fix something before they could get to work. The next tech would say the same thing. Weeks went by. How many technicians does it take to get connected to the internet? Seven, it turns out.

This disruption threw my weekly schedule completely off and kept me on edge in ways I’m embarrassed to admit. Without a familiar pattern to my days, I didn’t know how to function, couldn’t relax, and barely spoke to anyone.

It was maddening, sure. But it was also absurd—I felt absurd. I still had a place to sleep, and I could work from a coffee shop or my family’s house. Being without internet wasn’t the end of the world. It was just an inconvenience. It broke the routine I relied on, leaving me in a sort of limbo, unable to fully settle into my new life.

And that’s what frustrated me the most. I need my daily routine.

At this point in my recovery, I know that without familiar predictability, my life feels completely off-kilter. I don’t feel like myself. I start to lose control, and I fear I’m at risk of slipping back into relapse.

But this period of uncertainty tested my recovery and stretched me in ways that have only made it clear that I’m in a better place than I expected.

I found ways to keep moving—adjusting my work routine, carving out small moments to settle into my new home, reaching out to friends even when time was short, staying active even on the busiest days, and finding new ways to relax.

Routines are meant to be broken. Life is unpredictable and messy.

I can handle it. Even when my routine falls apart, I can adapt and rebuild. Routine is important, but so is being flexible. Life will never be static. Sometimes holding on too tight only makes things harder; you need to be okay with letting go.

1. I completed my 4th LA Marathon on March 8th. I raised funds for Strides in Recovery, a nonprofit that helps people in addiction treatment centers stay active by taking them out walking and running, boosting their confidence and strength so they can focus on their recovery.

   I barely got any sleep due to the time change, but the energy from 27,000 other runners was enough to keep me going :) Friends and family came out to support me, and I teared up a few times as I watched other runners see their loved ones on the route. I’m still not 100% healthy, so I was just proud of myself for running the full 26.2 miles, no matter the pace.

2. My February Substack earnings were donated to Westside Vendor Buyout to support Los Angeles street vendors affected by ICE raids. Money went directly to vendors so they can stay home safely without losing income. I don’t plan on doing paid posts regularly — making money here isn’t my main goal, but it felt like a positive way to use the little income I earn. Thanks to my paid subscribers! 

When things fall apart, what brings you solace? Who or what do you turn to during moments of upheaval or uncertainty?

Hello friend,

I had my last all-nighter 2 years, 4 months, and 19 days ago. I’ve spent these past few years prioritizing my recovery: really digging into my shit, purging myself of anything and anyone who weighs me down, and doing everything I possibly can to lead a healthy, peaceful, and creative life. But my recovery is not just from substances; it’s from heartbreak, and the two feel intrinsically linked.

Love and relapse have become so fused in my mind that dating feels inherently dangerous and therefore unappealing. It is a huge risk, and I have become dutifully risk-averse in my sober life.

It’s difficult to imagine a relationship I might want for myself now, considering I have only ever loved people I could do drugs with, worshiped bodies I could do drugs off of, kissed mouths that tasted like wine. And with the ones I dated while trying to get clean, my thoughts were otherwise occupied by an incessant need to get fucked up.

I’ve never had this much time, energy, or capacity to love someone, and yet I find I have no desire to.

A few years ago…

my life was ending. I wanted to hold her close and never let her go, not because of her, because frankly, she had become quite cold and distant, but because parting would mean facing a deep, dark abyss. I’d be alone again, and I didn’t care much for my own company.

I’d done this silly, if not emotionally manipulative, thing of mentioning I wanted to propose to her, only because I had sensed she was pulling away for good this time. Marriage was, of course, a ridiculous idea—more a final act of desperation than anything romantic or realistic—but in my mind, it was a matter of life or death. I needed to keep her. I needed our relationship to continue the impossible work of holding me together.

One of our final days together, we sat on my too-small bed, backs against the wall, arms close but not touching. She browsed through a website of lab-grown diamonds on her phone. The air in the room was stretched impossibly thin, neither of us willing to admit what we were thinking: she didn’t want to be there—and, honestly, I didn’t want her to be either. All I could think about was the room-temp bottle of Sauvignon Blanc I had hidden in the bottom drawer of my dresser. I wanted badly to be rid of her so I could drown out the impending heartbreak.

After a painful hour or two, she finally left. I fiendishly seized the secret bottle, pouring the pale liquid into a red glass filled with ice. The color of the glass let me pretend it was anything but what I told the world I’d given up. I drank it like a man roaming an arid desert would if it were water, finishing it before it had time to cool, the ice kissing my lips with the last desperate drop.

I attached myself to person selfishly, even as love and warmth slipped away. I clung to the pain, to the fear—I wanted her love, even if it had to be forced, even if she had to pretend. Anything to shield me from the inevitable collapse.

It wasn’t just her. Drugs played a pivotal role in every significant relationship I had, romantic and platonic, either because we did them together or because they blew things up. I’ve always been drawn to people who fit into this dynamic—people I could play a victim with, people I could eventually blame for my relapse, my unhappiness, everything wrong in my life.

At each end, I refused to accept what a mess I had become. I didn’t see how strictly I followed a pattern from love to relapse. I couldn’t understand just how seriously I was using love as another escape.

It has always been my default to disappear into someone else, abandoning any trace of myself. Being in love, the way I loved, was no different than being high. It was all-consuming, intoxicating, the black hole of my obsession eating away at everything else.

When I love, I give everything, and when it ends, I’m left with nothing. I’ve never known another way.

In this safe bubble of my sobriety, I treat love as something that could undo me. I’m wary of crushes, fleeting attractions, subtle flirtations. I keep them at a respectful distance. This life I’ve built demands attention and care. It is beautiful, and I want to protect it.

I know how easily I could give it all up the moment I fall into someone else’s arms, reorganizing my life around theirs, because it would seem like the easier thing to do, just as drinking once did. I am not interested in disappearing like that again.

The road I’m on feels right to me. It has helped me grow, brought goodness into my life, and helped me become the human I’ve always wanted to be. After a few solid years of failing, learning, and expanding, I can’t imagine a romantic relationship that would add to it rather than take from it.

It’s not impossible.
It just isn’t what my life depends on anymore.

love,
Lindsey

I’ve been reading a lot of moody queer memoirs lately (*cough*—can’t you tell?), and I loved these. Seriously, you need to read them.

1. Love Me Tender by Constance Debré.

2. A Boy’s Own Story by Edmund White. I started underlining sentences that blew me away, but had to stop because I was basically underlining the entire book.

I may know myself well enough to be wary of romance, but I still love love. How has it helped you grow, heal, or find light in a dark place? I want to hear your stories—share the love!! And if you have any book recommendations, I’d love those too.

This month’s Substack earnings will be donated to Westside Vendor Buyout to support Los Angeles street vendors affected by the ICE raids. Every dollar goes to vendors so they can stay home safely without losing income.

A few sporadic text messages flutter against my hip, where my phone is tucked into the pocket of my Nike biker shorts—my favorite pair for long-distance runs. They’re high-waisted with flexible compression, molding and stretching to my body while keeping everything tight and in place. Nothing jiggles, which means I can drift into the run instead of wrestling my shorts.

I maintain a steady pace as I pull out my phone, struggling to swipe it open through the salt left by a slick sheen of sweat. It is eighty-two degrees in January. I am overheating, the ocean breeze doing its best to keep up. When Face ID fails to recognize me and instead demands my six-digit passcode, my frustration with technology and the ever-growing desire to rid myself of it consumes me, filling me with contempt. I pound the numbers with my thumb. The phone refuses my first two attempts, buzzing in condescension until I finally get it right.

The texts are from a friend who was lurking my location on Find My Friends.
What are you doing behind the Orange Curtain?

Running! I respond.

The only thing I do once I cross the invisible border between Los Angeles County and Orange County, aka “the Orange Curtain,” is run.

If I’m being honest, it feels scary crossing this county border as a gay woman. I stopped visiting this particular city I’m running through, Huntington Beach, after graduating high school, once I understood that many of the people here are less accepting of who I am. That perception was solidified by the documented history of white supremacist activity, reinforced by slurs shouted while I held hands with a then-girlfriend, and by friends pushed and screamed at by counterprotesters on its main street after George Floyd’s death.

But lately, the danger feels everywhere. It’s dangerous to be gay, as I am. To be trans. To be Brown. To be Black. The threat, the hate, the fear are real for so many, and they weigh on the world until it feels bleak and perilous. Orange County can seem like a petri dish for that kind of hostility, but I try to take what’s good from it—to remember that not everyone here hates people like me, to resist lumping all of OC into a single fearful assumption. I try not to give in, not to collapse into a puddle of defeat. Running makes those feelings melt away. I don’t forget the danger, but stomping the pavement rouses something impenetrable in me, the miles I cover shielding me like armor.

As I look around the wide beach path full of runners, walkers, dogs, cyclists, families, and skaters, I see everyone smiling. I smile back. I half-wave at other runners, an acknowledgment of our shared suffering. To run is to endure pain, to live in it, to find your way through. To me, this shared suffering becomes its own act of resistance. If we can endure this, what else might we be capable of?

Everyone is so nice and joyful, living for the unseasonably warm day. They don’t know who I am. I am just a runner passing through the Orange Curtain—sure, wearing all black, covered in tattoos—but a runner all the same. I am privileged to move through here unnoticed, unpoliced. I could be one of them. Would they still smile if they knew?

I run through the happy people, keeping my slow but mighty pace, taking up space with my breath, my body, my being.

Read more

Losing all sense of time, the next thing I know my nurse is calling the doctor to tell her about the drugs they gave me. When did the doctor leave the room?

Then I started whisper-shouting at the nurse to please let her know I’m doing much much better, and I don’t want her to worry— I feel so bad she was making such a worried face. The nurse smiled at me and relayed the information. All I could think about was the doctor’s twisted expression.

A few minutes later (or maybe thirty—what is time in a hospital?), the nurse gave me apple juice to sip on, and I realized I was suddenly the thirstiest I’d ever been in my life. Why hadn’t I noticed until she offered it? She held the straw to my mouth, my hands still too weak to grasp anything.

How nice it feels to be baby again, I thought—despite the fact that I’m always the baby, especially in my family, and many would argue I’m treated accordingly. Still, it felt more deserved in the hospital— there was no guilt attached to it. The attention, the soft voices, the gentle hands. No one needed me to be alright. Embarrassment didn’t exist here. I was allowed to need help without feeling bad about it.

The juice was delicious. It came in a shallow container with a foil lid, the straw absurdly too long for it. I thought it was an odd, impractical combination—the kind of thing you notice when your mind needs something to complain about, when you’re otherwise at peace.

I looked to the bed across from me and noticed the tired face of a woman I had seen in the waiting room before our surgeries. Her daughter—or someone I assumed was her daughter—had been with her then and brought a knitting project to pass the time while her mother was under the knife. They had been joking around with each other, and their loud laughter eased my nerves before my name was called to enter the pre-op room. I smiled at her as our eyes met, and she smiled back weakly.

The nurse assigned to my recovery made idle chit-chat with me, asking who Kenny was, pointing to the tattoo on my forearm.

“Oh, my brother. He died. Eight years ago this month, actually.”

The sadness didn’t creep into the words like it normally did, and I was relieved when the nurse showed no pity and offered no follow-up questions. My brother is dead, period.

The drugs were making me cheerful and numb.

After an hour, the fogginess had mostly dissipated, and my nurse helped me sit up and get dressed. I was wheeled outside to where my parents were waiting for me in their white Honda CR-V.

In and out! Snip snap shut. $13,000 for an outpatient surgery that only took 45 minutes in the operating room. Holy heck. I should have grabbed a handful of apple juices on the way out.

I awoke with severe cramping a few nights later—which was to be expected following the surgery—and it kept me up for several hours.

I turned on my heated blanket to soothe my spastic abdomen, but became too afraid of falling asleep with it on and potentially burning myself (or the house down), so I unplugged it and sat in painful misery.

For an hour, I wrestled with the thought of taking a shower, afraid I might wake someone in the house.

Over the last year, I’ve been living with family, and while acquaintances are quick to ask if it’s driving me crazy, it’s really been the best thing for my recovery, my healing, and my bank account. As this time comes to an end (I’ll be moving into my own place at the end of the month), I understand how much it’s given me: permission to be cared for, to be weak, to be a baby.

The pain wasn’t going away. The ibuprofen I took wasn’t strong enough, and I certainly didn’t have any Dilaudid on hand (the doctor had prescribed me 800 mg ibuprofen, but I didn’t even pick that up from the pharmacy—I’m a big girl, capable of taking four pills at a time). I resolved to get in the shower as quietly as I could.

I crept through the house along the outer edges of my heels, my eyes adjusting to the violet darkness and making out familiar shapes of furniture. I slipped through the narrow walkway by the dining table, holding my breath as I rounded the corner into the bathroom, shutting the door as softly as possible because it otherwise makes an obnoxiously loud click.

With the bathroom light came the fan, and I could only hope none of these noises would wake my sleeping family.

There is so much guilt wrapped up in being awake in the middle of the night—something I’ve carried with me from my years in active addiction: those restless hours between dark and dawn, staring at the ceiling, angry with myself for getting high again, ashamed and perplexed. I had to remind myself this isn’t that.

I turned the knob to its hottest setting and stepped into the shower, letting the water warm my skin and muscles. The heat worked its magic, erasing the tension and soothing the cramps. My mind finally returned to that place where I knew sleep would come, though I couldn’t shake the fear that if I turned the water off—if I left that warm, wet haven—the pain might return.

I shut off the shower before my thinking became waking, and slipped back into bed, grateful that my body, although now pale red from the extreme heat of the shower, was relaxed enough to drift off to sleep.

Living with my family this last year has helped me come back to myself. It’s kept me from returning to the void. It’s shown me I don’t have to disappear to survive pain.

And if I ever fear disappearing, I know someone will always be there to care for me—because I’m baby.

It’s 5:03 a.m., lovely.
I did not need to look at a phone to know that it was too early; the lack of sun said as much.

It’s too early to be awake, but still, my thumb habitually unlocks the screen with no consideration of my cortisol levels, the rest of my body too dumb with sleep to protest, unable to fight the autonomous movement. With one eye open, I search the screen for a quick dopamine hit. My thumb can find no Instagram, no Spotify, no Depop, not even the Substack app to turn to—I have removed them all. It searches for something, anything, and lands on the worst thing, the news. It clicks through flashy, terrifying headlines. A shooting there, a stabbing here, oil tankers, Trump, AI, cancer research defunded. My squinting eye scans this between 5:04-5:07, three minutes of my life lost to anxious thought.

Mission of setting my nervous system to high alert complete, my thumb locks the phone, and I throw it under my pillow, squeezing my eyes shut against the horrors, but it’s too late—I’m wide awake.

I am constantly at war with my phone. Over the last few months, I’ve done serious work to detach—deleting social media, ending my codependent Spotify subscription, and even considering a dumb phone. These changes have reduced my screen time, but more importantly, they’ve made me aware of the habitual reaching—the phantom need to numb out.

The time I now spend on my phone no longer feels satisfying. I still reach for it automatically, but I’m consciously aware of the moment I do so. It doesn’t hold as much power as it once did; I’m no longer carried away. I may still scroll, but it ends abruptly. In that way, I’ve reduced my phone to what it should be: a phone.

I want my phone to be a phone—texting, phone calls, FaceTime. Only this. I don’t need it to be a supercomputer. I have a computer. I don’t want my phone to be my work, my bank, the place I consume all my media, or the only way I take photos. I don’t want to walk down the street with my eyes glued to a screen, the way I see so many of us do every day.

On any given day, I might be on a walk or stopped at a red light, and I see a kid step into the crosswalk, head bent at an unnatural angle, eyes fixed on his glowing rectangle. He doesn’t notice the cars whooshing past, the truck inching forward to turn right, blocking his path. He doesn’t look up at all. To me, he looks like an idiot. And I could so easily be him, I have been him! We all look silly, don’t we? Staring at our screens as the world passes us by. What kind of life is this? I can’t stay in this. I need out. I need something simpler, something real, away from the glow of the screen. I can’t throw my phone into the sea, but I can find more ways to detach. I need to.

Before I took certain measures to reduce screentime, my head throbbed, my heart ached, I was tired, and worst of all, I’d stopped doing the things I love.

Movies, workouts, journaling, reading, time with friends and family—these simple things are what slow down time. They are the things that make me most happy. I’d been guilty of replacing them with scrolling, which offers nothing but a dopamine crash and a heavy heart.

Now that I have all this precious time back, I’m getting back into journaling—which had been sporadic at best over the last few years—and it feels like a revelation: Oh! This is what I love doing. Letting my mind expand as I jot down every thought, moving freely without overthinking. I love writing, and finally, I’m making time for it.

Months away from social media and apps that once glued me to my phone have given me more time to do what I love, and it’s clear to me now that it wasn’t life that was making me anxious—it’s always my phone. It overstimulates my nervous system, steals my time, and leaves my days frantic and empty. Even having it in the same room makes my mind restless. Removing it from my life as much as possible feels like a reclamation.

I don’t want to rush through the things I love the way my phone has trained me to do. Always needing to move on to the next thing, my attention span shot from too many short-form videos on social media.

I want to experience life. Intentional meals, conversations, writing, walking my dog, other daily routines—I want them to carry weight and depth. I want to inhabit my life, not skim across its surface, distracted by whatever glows and promises to numb.

I’m replacing my consumer habits with creation. I carry my journal with me everywhere I go because I want to be present with my own thoughts again—even if they’re messy, unintelligible, and seemingly insignificant. Now I write without thinking—or the thinking is the writing—but I don’t focus on it; I let it spill out of me. I’m doing what I love—and time stands still.

As I wait for the nurse to attend to me, I glance around the room toward the other patients—we each have our own designated space, separated by walls without doors. We’re spaced out enough so that I don’t feel like I’m intruding by looking over. Behind me, an older couple settles in: the man in the recliner, the woman across from him in an armchair, a magazine already splayed out on her lap. He says something warm—too soft to hear—and she laughs, gentle and sweet, before they slip into a comfortable silence.

I can’t see the woman to my left, but she’s on speakerphone with her daughter, who is on her way to pick her up. The daughter is expressing intense anxiety over parking; maybe she’s having a bad day or worried about her mom, I can hear it in her voice. But the mother calmly gives her instructions, assuring her it’s all very simple. The speakerphone is loud enough to carry throughout the whole floor, but I welcome the sound. The normalcy of the conversation—and the calmness in the mother’s voice—soothes me. My body relaxes into the chair.

When I arrived at the infusion center for my first treatment, I felt embarrassed, as if I’d wandered into the wrong place. Everyone around me seemed to be facing something bigger, heavier. And I was there for a simple iron infusion (though “simple” is relative—it’s meant to counteract the blood loss I endure every month, which has landed me a minor surgery scheduled early next year).

For months, I’d brushed my symptoms off—my exhaustion, the fact that I couldn’t work out, the spaciness. Even after the diagnosis, I kept calling myself lazy, unmotivated, dramatic. Feeling unlike myself had stirred old cravings, so bad I had to increase my Wellbutrin dosage and return to AA meetings to get ahead of them. To make matters worse, the week before this last infusion, I lost so much blood my doctor told me to go to the ER. For so long now, I’ve barely been able to do anything except lie on the couch—limbs leaden, brain foggy, skin an ashen pallor.

But sure. Let’s call it “dramatic.”

The nurse assigned to me walks over and introduces herself. I poke fun at myself for having too much caffeine, not enough water, as I sip on my Diet Coke, and she is kind enough to laugh. All this is to distract, to make light of the situation—I’m not scared, I’m silly, smiling, and everything is okay. I’m trying to make myself feel better; this isn’t so serious. I feel fortunate to be sitting here in these chairs, and to be on the road to recovery; to pity myself or even outwardly show fear would feel disrespectful to the others with more serious illnesses.

My nurse casually mentions that a different nurse will hook me up to the IV. My body tenses—an alarm going off in my nervous system—but I smile and thank her as she leaves, watching Nurse Mary ominously float over to me. Her disposition seems out of place: more careful than the other nurses—slower, more deliberate. She doesn’t look at me as she sets up her tray and washes her hands. I’ve watched The Pitt all the way through enough times to know this nurse is new, less experienced than the others. I make conversation and try to breathe normally, ignoring the tightening in my chest. I tell myself that less experience doesn’t mean inexperience—she may be new, but she still knows what she’s doing. Right? She asks questions about me without listening.

After a few robotic exchanges, she ties the tourniquet around my arm and starts looking for a good vein. I tell her where I usually get poked, in the crook of my elbow, but she ignores me, turning my arm over and back again. She seems more interested in a vein near my wrist. I look toward the ceiling as she begins rubbing an alcohol swab along my veins. This is taking too long. My veins have never been hard to find; in fact, many phlebotomists have commented on how visible they are.
Not to brag, or anything.

Okay, does she actually know what she’s doing? She rubs the alcohol back and forth more times than feels necessary. My stomach is in my throat. My pulse is racing. The band on my bicep tightens. Satisfied with the vein on my wrist, she finally pokes me—and misses. This has never happened before. I am panicking now, but smiling at her, what the actual fuck. Not only does she miss, but she decides to dig around where she’s poked me, attempting to draw blood. She seems confused, and finally I’ve reached my breaking point. I start to tell her, “I feel really light—” and then I lose consciousness.

When I come to, Nurse Mary—this ridiculous woman—whispers that I’ve just had a seizure.

Reader, rest assured, I did not have a seizure. I fainted. A team of nurses surrounds my chair—one placing oxygen tubes around my face, my original nurse correctly poking my other arm to deliver fluids, another speaking softly, trying to calm me down. I’m hyperventilating, expelling so much CO₂ that my calcium drops, and my hands and feet cramp violently. I look down: I’ve got crab-claw hands. They’re buzzing, tingling, and impossible to control. My mind races—I can’t make sense of it. A nurse runs to get my doctor, who’s fortunately nearby.

Voices overlap, drowned out by my panic and Nurse Mary insisting I had a seizure.

Gradually, the words from the others sharpen. My original nurse tells me I fainted, that I’m okay, that I need to breathe. Slowly, the tingling lifts, and I can move my fingers again, grasping at the air like a child asking to be picked up, relieved to feel connected to my body again.

Another nurse offers water, juice, even a turkey sandwich. The doctor tells me I’m okay, that the body does amazing things to protect itself. Yeah, to protect myself from Nurse Mary, I think. She’s in the corner, explaining to the others how mysterious it was that I passed out. No, Mary, it’s no mystery—you are why I passed out. But it’s fine. It’s over now, and let me be clear: I love nurses. My mom is a nurse. I even have a rose of no man’s land tattooed on that same arm that got pricked, for goodness sake.

I remind myself to listen to my body the next time I feel alarmed. I knew I was more vulnerable to lightheadedness with needles, understood that this green nurse was making me anxious, and realized my body had been telling me I didn’t have to smile through it. I didn’t have to pretend I was okay. But even when I panic, my body is always looking out for me.

Next time, if there is a next time, I’ll just ask for Dr. Robby.

Instead, I let it sit in my inbox, slowly getting buried beneath other texts—smoldering a hole in my pocket. I told myself I’d forgotten it, convinced that by ignoring it, I was allowing the temptation to suffocate.

But that’s not right, is it?

That’s the dirty trick an addict plays on themselves: pretending they don’t want the very thing that could make them lose everything.

Hiding the text away, the seductive voice of relapse whispered sweetly in my ear.

When the text lit up my phone, my mind raced, wondering who it could be. But deep down, in the dark corners of my addict brain, I recognized the familiar sequence of numbers. A current of ease and warmth flowed through me, followed by a buzzing excitement—is it wrong to admit I liked having the number in my possession again?

When I finally opened the message, I played it cool, holding my phone out to a friend and gasping, “I think this is my drug dealer?!”

“Crazy,” they said.

“Crazy!” I told them.

We both laughed. And it was crazy—because I was secretly delighted.
Terrified, too. An addict can be both things at once.

My friend probably assumed I deleted it. And that’s kind of them, to have that faith in me. But they were wrong. And the fact that they didn’t question me only gave me further permission to hold onto it. Maybe I can get away with this, the voice said.

I couldn’t delete the message. Not right away. The number felt too precious. It was like an answer, but an answer to what? My misery? And from where? Hell?

Then, a warning rose from my conscience: holding onto this will cost you everything—two years of sobriety gone—just like that—because of a single text. Gone because you’re still drawn to the familiarity of shame and of being a fuck-up. Let this go—delete it before it’s too late.

The two conflicting forces—one of them rooting for my downfall, the other optimistic of my redemption—wrestled in my mind.

The winner yet to be determined.

Even though I’m proud to be clean, and I’d prefer to stay clean, part of me still misses the escape that addiction offers—the total surrender.

Life is hard and the world is terrifying. I don’t think the urge to run from it will ever completely go away. And I’d be lying if I said drugs and alcohol don’t still sound like a plausible solution sometimes. But then what? I’m high again, and the world is still shit? That doesn’t sound great either. But my brain keeps insisting it’s a viable option; it traces old escape routes from familiar pain. But the only thing I’ll find at the end of that path is darkness.

I spent years surrendering to my own darkness, to my own destruction. I don’t want to go back to that, even though I’m exhausted.

How tempting it is, in moments like this—when I’m not well, when I’m soft and vulnerable—to give in. Anyone might. The promise of relief dangles there, seductive but venomous. Do I take the bait?

I tell myself I want control, to feel empowered. But what kind of control is this—clutching the direct line to relapse like a woman possessed?

I told everyone about the text—my friends, family, other people in recovery. That’s what a good addict, a responsible addict, ought to do. None of them asked if I deleted it; they all assumed I had, maybe from my cool indifference, but probably because I didn’t explicitly state my inner turmoil. The people who care for you won’t look for problems unless you give them reason to. This wasn’t permission for me to be a fuck up; it was just the point at which I needed to decide. Where do I go from here? It was up to me to make the move.

I let the message sit in my inbox for a week before I deleted it. Then it was in “Recently Deleted,” so not really gone. I had a weak moment and recovered it. It sat there another week.

In writing this, I’m forcing myself to do the right thing: delete it completely. Delete the message. Empty the folder. Delete the screenshot I sent to a friend. Leave no trace.

An addict likes to hold onto things. We tell ourselves that confession is enough. Everyone assumes we did the right thing, so we start to believe it too. We pretend we have control when, in truth, we’re drowning.

I can’t publish this without having done it, can I? If I keep the number, I will lose everything.

This is me admitting a secret. This is me letting you into the mind of an addict flirting with relapse, desperate to believe in her own control.

That’s two years of abstinence from drugs and alcohol. Two years of freedom from hangovers and crushing guilt. Two years of discovering who I am without using. Two years of protecting my money, my health, and my time instead of wasting them on nights I wouldn’t remember.

Two years is wild. Two years is wonderful. I can’t believe I’ve made it this far.

I wanted to write a big, celebratory post. To congratulate myself. Tell you all how well things are going. That I am happy and blessed and the world is a brighter place because I exist in it sober. But October 1st came and went, and I couldn’t write. I could barely think.

The truth is, I am so very tired.

My iron deficiency has wiped me out. I can’t run, write, read, or even take my dog to the park. I can barely get off the couch most days, and driving is out of the question.

Instead of celebrating as I had imagined — going out with friends or enjoying a cute mocktail with a book on the bluff — my sober birthday looked very different. I celebrated by getting my first of several iron infusions in a hospital. My levels are so low that supplements aren’t enough, and it’ll take many more infusions — and more time — before I feel like myself again.

Even through all of this, I am thankful for my body. Though tired, it’s the same body I once put through the strain of drugs and alcohol, and waking up exhausted reminds me of those anxiety-filled mornings walking to Rite Aid for a bottle of wine. Reaching this milestone while facing health challenges has made me acutely aware of the misery I used to add to my own life, and I am grateful that this is not that. This can be fixed. I am on the road to fixing it. My body can withstand trauma, it can heal, and it deserves healing.

Hell, I’ve survived worse. My body and mind will carry me through this health glitch, no problem.

So celebrate with me! Acknowledge your wins, no matter how small they are or how tired you may feel. Raise a Topo Chico to me and to you.

Love you. Write soon.

xx Lindsey

It’s 8:30 p.m. in Portland, and the air is still sweltering at 92 degrees. That’s down from 100, a pathetic reprieve.

The sun is setting, and soon the neon orange sphere dipping into the horizon will leave the sky a pale purple.

I can't think clearly in this heat, but I feel light as I walk around the city, like I’m floating — or maybe I’m just lightheaded. I mindlessly grab a kombucha from a liquor store, even though I’m not the biggest fan. My stomach has been bothering me, and a ginger beverage might be the remedy. Funny to grab it without thinking, as if my body knew the answer to my aching.

A few weeks ago, I was diagnosed with anemia. It didn’t feel like a big deal, because it’s something that has a simple enough fix — take iron supplements, maybe eat more tofu, add spinach to all my smoothies, and start enjoying oyster happy hours.

The diagnosis was welcomed because I had been feeling generally unwell and lethargic for months, if not longer. And I can’t tell you how frustrating it is to care so lovingly for my body only to have it betray me. To no longer drink or use drugs, but still feel so weak. My body feels broken, which makes me feel broken.

The iron doesn’t seem to be working. If anything, my symptoms are getting worse (you can read more on how severe anemia can be here). To feel this way on vacation has been disorienting, a reminder that I still don’t feel like myself.

I’m housesitting for my dear friend, which means I’m technically alone in this city for several days. As I go for my third walk in the rose garden, my favorite musician singing sweetly in my earbuds, I’m hit with a tidal wave of grief and loneliness. AH, there it is. I am alone — not just in the city, but in my body.

I have this burning desire to be bad, but I don’t know what that even means anymore. I could drink without anyone knowing, but it would do nothing to fill the emptiness.

Instead, I text a friend, and their gentle, calming response reminds me I am not entirely alone.

The desire dissipates.

Earlier this summer, I had actually planned on moving to Portland. It seemed like the right place for a fresh start, a place where I could be someone new, someone expanding. When I found a way to stay in California, I felt a mix of relief and guilt, as if I were betraying some potential version of myself.

However, I knew deep down that I wanted to stay close to my family, friends, and the beach. To sunshine! To all my commitments and responsibilities. To my routine—wow, how I love my silly little routine.

I sometimes think moving would be easy because I don’t have much to uproot. Nonsense! I am living a big, full life; I just have a hard time recognizing it.

It’s as if I don’t remember how I spent sleepless, drug-fueled nights and hungover mornings fantasizing about this very life.

Staying put doesn’t mean I’ve failed myself or others; it means I’m beginning to notice the fullness I so often overlook.

Being sick during my trip to Portland has actually put things in perspective: I carry my baggage everywhere. My body, my recovery, my emptiness, and all my possibilities. A new city wouldn’t change, erase, or add to that. It is okay to remain still, and stay in one place.

I may not have chosen the big move this summer, and my body may still falter, but healing is happening, slowly and surely.

Dragged down by the heat, I find reprieve when I listen to my body. A friend takes me outside the city, where we hike to a hidden patch of sand beside a waterfall. I let my body absorb the heat before plunging into the water, battling a white-crested current as I swim to the other side to touch the waterfall. The rushing water so freezing cold that I scream, and my teeth chatter violently. But I’m also laughing, noticing how alive I feel despite my summer malaise.

Out of that painful shock comes a sense of wonder, full and expansive. I am alive in my body, no matter where I am.

It wasn’t just the obvious addiction—doomscrolling—or the exhaustion that came every day from a mind overloaded by information. More than that, I no longer want to be attached to the persona. To “@lingod”, as it was.

Permanently scrubbing the social media profile I had curated over the past fifteen years freed me from a kind of psychic torment: the constant need to perform, to market myself, to let it define who I was and what I was about. I deleted Instagram to step away from a version of myself I no longer related to. A persona that had become more real, and more addictive, than the person I actually was.

An innocent beginning

At its inception, Instagram represented, for a brief moment at least, something far simpler than the soul-sucking bottomless pit of commodification and rage-bait it became. It was just a silly place to post poorly filtered photos of food, of the people you loved, and to connect with cute strangers from different cities whose lives you wanted to take a magnifying glass to.

Before the creators, the influencers, and the ads—before all the noise—it felt new and exciting.

The first photo I posted on the main grid (pre-Stories, pre-Reels) was of a Valencia-filtered bowl of pho I ate in the Mission District of San Francisco. In the early days of social media, we all played around with a similar sequence of images: food, loved ones, plants and animals, concerts.

It was all joyfully naïve; we posted without thought, fear, or anticipation of how it might be received, or how we might be perceived. You didn’t think of an audience then. It was a collage before it became a portfolio.

When it became what it became I do not know. But it stopped being fun and silly and started being serious and horrifying.

Projections and parasocial fantasies

Instagram’s simple beginnings, where we once documented our lives for friends and family, quickly morphed into a hungry, covetous machine. The “feed” soon offered us entire lives to inhabit and project onto, and in exchange, we fed it ours. All my desires and fears were at the tip of a finger; everything was within reach. Just a tap or a swipe away was something curious and interesting, something I had never previously heard of or done or known about.

I could follow an artist who lived in the bay and be dropped into their world where, after painting all day in the studio they’d meet with friends for chilled wine and fresh oysters some place along the harbor of a northern city, and I’d taste the salted butter and gold crusted bread they split a basket of. I might connect with a girl who has my likeness but who lives in a different country, she’s covered in tattoos and I watch from my screen as she meets the love of her life, quits abusing alcohol, and over the years has several kids, eventually moving her little family all around the world, their faces always smiling, no matter how sticky the kids get, always covered in mud or sand or leaves, whatever the topography of their location happens to be. And I felt that I knew her, I knew her family, I was spending quality time with them all.

But I don’t know these people on the internet, not really, not even the ones who follow me back, not even the ones I may have met in person once or twice, because we always retreat back to the screens. Still, I became them in a way. Their lives quickly digested and absorbed by me, a part of me then. I disappeared. In scrolling through their posts, I scrolled through possible versions of myself. How intoxicating.

Addiction to performance

I became increasingly dependent on “likes”, later “engagement”, and what garnered the most likes were photos of my face. You’d like to think this sort of praise is a good thing, but not when you start to rely on it for validation.

Selfies took over. No more flowers, concerts, or photos of friends cheersing beverages. On the other hand, if I took a selfie while holding a beverage, that blew up. A photo of me holding a Bloody Mary, back when I had long black hair that I often fashioned into braids, received over a thousand likes. I was hooked.

I started posting more and more photos of myself holding wine while reading, holding a cocktail while out with friends, holding a plastic flute of champagne while wading in a pool, on vacation, or at home. I loved the image; I played into it. It was seductive to be seen that way, for whatever reason, but I was also hiding behind it. It was a version of me people liked, so I kept feeding it, even when it didn’t feel right. The engagement kept the emptiness at bay, as did the wine and the drugs.

I wasn’t just posting to connect, I was posting to control how others might perceive me. Each image was a carefully curated performance, designed to skew their perception in my favor. This wasn’t some diabolical plan; it was second nature. I went where the likes took me, chasing the versions of myself that got the most attention.

There was the Instagram persona I had, extroverted, confident, always holding a glass of wine, always slightly elusive. Sometimes she belonged to me. Sometimes, she belonged to someone else.

Projection and blurred boundaries

She flirted with me long before we met.

After getting to know each other through a separation of screens, we finally met in person, and she seemed possessed by my presence. We drunkenly kissed in a dive bar bathroom, even though she had a boyfriend. We stayed friends well after, confused friends, but I enjoyed the confusion—it gave my mind something to work out that would never be solved—I stayed occupied on an impossible task, a distraction from my own life. The boundaries were always blurred because she never really saw me, I was just a character to her from the internet. It’s as if she claimed ownership over me, the idea of me. And I felt the same about her. Not that this was either of our faults. The internet and social media are breeding grounds for idolization. We’re the idealized versions of ourselves, and that fantasy becomes addictive, a projected image to absorb all our desires and fears. A perfect fantasy, a living nightmare.

Then there was the former girlfriend who, by her own account, had “stalked me online for four years” before we met. On our first date—and for much of our time together—she seemed completely enraptured. But her adoration was based on an image she had seen online. Over time, I began to feel painfully misunderstood. She clung to an image I’d long outgrown, especially after getting clean. She brought up old friends I’d left behind, or wanted to go out and do things I no longer felt interested in doing. I felt trapped in a role I no longer played. The more she reached for her idea of me, the more invisible I was. I’m not “her” anymore. I’ve changed.

Deleting Instagram didn’t save me.

I still seek validation and praise from others. I self-examine and overanalyze myself ad nauseam. The urge to escape myself didn’t start with social media, and it won’t end by quitting it.

We scroll to forget ourselves, to disappear into the lives of others. But sometimes we go so deep down the hole of forgetting that we become someone else entirely. And we forget how to return. That was my experience, at least.

I deleted Instagram because I was fed up with the noise, the performance, and the endless comparisons. I wanted to be alone with my thoughts, not endlessly scrolling through the projections of others. I was ready to stop being someone for the internet.

When I deleted Instagram, nothing remarkable happened.

Just relief. Quiet. More time to read. Time to be myself—by myself.

At this point in my recovery, I’m finding joy in small, unexpected things. I’m thrilled, for example, that I can finally put my hair up in a low bun again. I love that it’s getting longer, that I can pull it up and away from my face. And I love my face: the freckles on my nose and neck, small kissable marks; my big brown eyes, even though my lashes stick out straight and I never bother to curl them; my teeth, straight and white, the same smile my siblings share.

I turned 34 this year and started noticing the lines on my forehead. In a photo a friend took, I caught myself scowling, and the lines looked deeper than ever. With my bangs now fully grown out, my forehead is on permanent display, and I’m not too crazy about it.

It bothered me enough that I got Botox for the first time. It always seemed an unnecessary vanity, an expense I didn’t need to tack on to an already tight budget. But it cost less than I expected, and I thought: why the hell not? Maybe it’s fine if I only do it twice a year, even if I’ve heard the effects don’t last long when you work out as much as I do. Maybe the temporary fix is worth it. I don’t touch my smile lines, the light creases near my eyes and mouth, those speak to a good life, maybe even a happy one. The forehead lines only mean worry, and that I can do away with.

Can I erase all my worries? Can I paralyze them forever?

Addiction is a flaw I can’t quite smooth out. A wound I can tend to, and be proactive about before it causes more damage or deepens the mark. But I can’t erase it. I’m left with its scar, a reminder that relapse is always possible, lurking just beneath the surface. I resist its negative pull, but I can’t afford to pretend it’s not there.

Someone recently asked if I’m in a better place, if I’m happy. I am… but. I’m not immune to disaster; I could still blow my life up, though I don’t want to. Sobriety removes the chaos but doesn’t erase old scars or the occasional urge to self-destruct.

I run and cycle often to combat intrusive thoughts and negative self-talk. I coach people in treatment centers, teaching them how running can be a healthy way to shake loose the anxiety that addiction leaves behind. Running forces you into your body. It makes you focus on pain until it melts away, leaving a kind of meditative peace. At the end, you feel stronger than you thought you were. Proud. Empowered. Feelings that weren’t reachable in active addiction. Running feels like a kind of cure.

For a while, I tried lifting weights, but didn’t like how it made my body look. It made me bigger, and I always want to be smaller. I know those thoughts can lead to dark places, so I’m careful, but they whisper in my ear most days. They make me question the love I say I have for my body, especially when summer arrives and there’s much less clothing. I love my thighs, but sometimes I hate them too.

Since I stopped drinking, I’ve slimmed down. But even small fluctuations scare me and send me spiraling. I ask all the physicians I go to not to tell me my weight, and when one accidentally did, I about lost my mind. I haven’t weighed myself in years because I know how damaging that number can be. I’ve promised myself kindness. I’ve accepted that chasing numbers never does me any good.

These days, I’m not in a place where I want to push myself harder, even though part of me feels like I should. Over the years, I’ve noticed I run slower than I used to, and I wonder if I’d run faster if I lost more body fat. At the same time, I feel stronger and healthier than ever. And I know forever seeking improvement won’t make me feel whole. Still, the questions nag at me:

Would I be happier if I were smaller? If I got faster? Rationally, I know the answer is no, but it doesn’t stop me from wondering.

I could train differently, incorporating more sprints and intervals to gain speed, but that isn’t how I like to run. I prefer jogging, focusing on my breath, feeling present and calm. Jogging suits me. It makes me happy. I’m not running away from something anymore, or trying to sprint past it. Still, I wish I could run fast if I wanted to. These days, my legs tire more quickly, even if my lungs and mind feel ready to take on Everest.

There will forever be this tension between wanting to improve and learning to accept what is. It’s in my blood to crave more — to reach for more, be more — without stopping to look around and be proud of what I’ve already accomplished.

Is it possible to stay here, where I am, and remain happy? Why must I be made to feel that who I am, what I’m doing right now, isn’t enough?

These constant questions feel like an answer. Maybe this is what a happy life really looks like: not perfect, not finished, but always examined. A life where I keep mending, but still pause to notice the freckles, the smile lines, and the way I can laugh at something while I’m running, without gasping for breath.

Thanks for making it to the end.

I would love to know:

• What does a “happy life” look like for you right now?

“Always accepted, always loved.”
– Proud father

On its face, those words sound tender, even moving. I might have believed them had they not been written on my brother’s obituary page by a man who never showed any real paternal care.

The last meal I shared with my father, before the cancer ate through his body, was also the first time I’d seen him in two years. I agreed to meet him out of courtesy, a few weeks after my brother died.

We met at a restaurant that he used to take us to as kids, a Jewish deli known for its chicken noodle and matzoh ball soup, served with a side of hot cornbread slathered with honey butter. The hostess led us to a dimly lit booth in the back, surrounded by elderly diners gossiping and chewing, their jewelry clinking with each bite. I wondered if their children or grandchildren ever took them here, or if, like us, they were estranged.

Before my father could speak, his eyes locked onto the server gliding by our table, who dropped a plate of homemade pickles before quickly moving on. I half-expected him to stop her with his arresting blue gaze, or to inappropriately grab her arm, or say something crude once she passed by, as was typical of him. But he said and did nothing, and my body relaxed.

My father studied the menu while I crunched on a briny-sweet pickle, the sharp sound of each bite filling the silence between us. I already knew what I wanted, but I kept my eyes fixed on the menu, pretending I didn’t.

Once he appeared confident in a dish, he set the menu down and looked up at me, his lips curling into a smile that burned more than it warmed. I broke eye contact after several seconds, uncomfortable with the intimacy. I imagine he was soaking it in, noticing how much I’d changed or grown or whatever, thinking deep down that I somehow belonged to him. But to me, the attention was invasive. Who was this man? How dare he look at me as if he cared?

He asked me questions, eager to learn everything he could about me during the hour I’d allowed him to spend with me. We tiptoed around the grief.

“You know, I always knew about him,” my father said after hearing enough about my life.

“Knew what?” I asked, acting confused, but understanding where this was going.

“That your brother was gay. I knew when he was little. A father knows these things.”

Right then, a memory resurfaces: my brother, a gangly teenager, sitting at the computer in our father’s cramped apartment in Oceanside, California, scrolling through AOL chatrooms. I was on the leather couch watching TV.

Our father had been out all morning, leaving us to care for ourselves. When he finally returned, he was holding a letter-sized paper bag. He slid a magazine out of it and handed it to my brother — it was a Playboy. My brother stared down at it blankly while our father nodded, silently urging him to inspect it. Uncertain, my brother flipped through its pages, not looking at them, but rather through them.

I don’t remember thinking in that moment, Oh, my brother must be gay, he won’t look at naked women. No. I just remember how uncomfortable I was.
Like I shouldn’t be there to witness this, like we shouldn’t have been there at all.

My father was never part of the conversation when I came out. At that point, he was a distant figure, someone whose absence left room for more honesty. I came out to my family — my siblings, mom, and stepdad — during my senior year of high school1, shortly after I started dating a girl. I had long been aware of my feelings for other girls, but it wasn’t until I was in a relationship that it felt real enough, an inescapable truth. My brother had come out to our family the year before, making it so much easier for me.

By coming out as gay first, my brother showed me I could live honestly and freely, and that love was still possible. That feeling this way wasn’t wrong; it was just who we are. It was in our blood. We were as gay as we were siblings.

I saw my father on his deathbed in a hospital in Lake Havasu, a hellhole of a town I couldn’t wait to get out of. He looked relieved to see his daughters, with him at last. Neither of us did a great job at pretending we wanted to be there, but he was too far gone to notice.

Reader, if I sound cold, I’m sorry. I won’t get into every reason why, but trust me when I say he did all the work to push us away. He never took responsibility for the harm he caused and never wanted to know his children. At his deathbed, it became clear to me how he hadn’t only driven us away — he was incapable of keeping anyone close.

No one came to his hospital room but his estranged children and his sister, who spent the visit trying to hand him off to us. She hadn’t seen us in over a decade, but she skipped pleasantries, only wanting to discuss money and logistics.

I felt sad then for my father, this man I had no real connection to. A man I once idolized, whose arm I clung to for dear life when I was little. I never wanted to let him go. And here I was, letting him go forever. And I felt nothing.

I hoped to never be like him. To never drive love away as he so easily seemed to. My relationships matter to me. The people I love, I want to do my best to keep loving them.

In that moment, I accepted him — not as my father, but as a man who could never quite figure out how to love or be loved.

Thanks, reader, for making it to the end.

I’d love to know what big feelings you’re sitting with during Pride Month. The grief you’re carrying. The joys you’ve experienced. Tell me <3

I take my mug out on the porch, where I watch moths perform their fatal dance in the dirt. Exhausted from flitting into the porch lights all night, they’re too tired now to fly away. Instead, they spin in circles until they die.

Like them, I am drawn to something—light, like a revelation, or perhaps transformation, the shedding of an old life.

I shift my attention to the field where my dog is hunting for ground squirrels.

She’s exploring the remnants of a fallen tree, her head dipping in and out of its cavernous trenches, when she suddenly begins furiously shaking her head. She bolts toward me, letting out small, piercing yelps of pain along the way.

I get up from my chair and shout, “What!?” not knowing what to do or how to help.

When she finally reaches me, her high-pitched, agonized shrieks bring me to my knees. I throw my body over hers in an instinctive attempt to shield her from whatever invisible thing is hurting her. I shake too, as if I can feel her pain in my body.

All I can do is cry out, “What’s wrong!?” and search her for bites or wounds.

Her tail is tucked beneath her, her legs are trembling, but there is nothing visibly wrong. To my relief, the shrieks gradually fade, and she eventually looks up at me with sad, searching eyes, seemingly more concerned with my distress than her own. She licks my hand, and her tail begins to wag gently.

I am left shivering from shock and crying into the gravel. The cause of her pain remains a mystery. For the rest of the day, I watch her with the attention of a hawk and Google the nearest emergency clinic, just in case. I sit with her as she eats her food, crying quietly into my hands. I question the droop of her left ear, fearing paralysis, until it perks up at a noise outside. She licks away my tears and lets me gaze into her amber eyes for several unbroken minutes.

I couldn’t help but imagine life without her, how the world would be empty and dark. That intense reaction—falling to my knees, crying, shaking—was my body recalling every grief I’ve ever carried, all reverberating through this fresh fear of losing my favorite companion. For a moment, I really believed she was dying.

I’ve seen what sudden loss can do. Those memories make me hold her closer, make me more fearful of the day I’ll have to let her go.

Years ago, my ex and I took our dogs on a walk through her neighborhood, somberly discussing the end of our relationship. A few houses from her home, she unclipped her dog’s leash, thinking the dog would be safe sprinting to the front door as she always did. Instead, she bolted into the street, chasing something we couldn’t see, just as an SUV came barreling around the corner.

There wasn’t time to react. I saw and heard the car roll over the dog, and she let out a single, blood-curdling howl that cut through the breath my ex and I were both holding. We ran to her in terrifying disbelief and found her lying on the asphalt, life leaving her eyes in seconds. My ex knelt down beside her and sobbed inconsolably.

That moment sometimes replays in my mind, accompanied by the awful thought: I almost let my dog off-leash, too. She would’ve followed my ex’s dog without hesitation.

One small decision saved my dog; another caused a death.

These memories live with me, influencing the choices I make today and tomorrow, coloring the world around me.

My grief follows me wherever I go.

For my 34th birthday, I hiked up Bishop’s Peak under the glaring sun, carrying my 15-pound dog most of the way. I used to live at the base of this mountain when I was 19, back when I shared a home in San Luis Obispo with my brother. Climbing it again and reaching the top felt like looking through a portal where I could retrace the shape of him.

I am grateful to be alive, in this body, to have made it through another year. But it will always hurt to be here without him.

I can’t help but imagine how this could all be different had my brother been able to speak about his issues with drinking. How talking about it more freely could have led him to ask for help before it was too late.

His death taught me the cost of silence. It’s why I speak so openly now, why I share my struggles with addiction. He couldn’t, and maybe that’s why he’s gone. If I hadn’t learned from his silence, maybe I would be, too.

I carry that knowledge with me, and it helps me make better choices in my recovery and in my life overall. But grief has changed me—it affects how I react to things and how I see the world. It’s a part of me now. I can’t escape loss or pain any more than a moth can avoid its fate after circling the light.

Thanks for making it to the end.

I want to know:

• Have you lost someone —or something— that has changed you?

• How does that loss shape the choices you make now?

But since I’ve been here, the anxiety of waiting has softened.

I’m writing from a friend’s cabin porch tucked into the rolling slopes of Atascadero, a small town hidden behind San Luis Obispo and Morro Bay.

This morning, I hiked one of the many mountains, its trails carved by hand — one man’s hands, to be exact. He’s an older gentleman who lives nearby, and he’s shaped the land with an excavator so he and his neighbors can enjoy it.

I pass by him on his mountain bike, with his golden lab, Bingo, trotting alongside.
Bingo is a fetch-playing fiend. She won’t leave you alone once the game begins. She prances back and forth on her front and hind legs like a seesaw. To her, fetch is everything.

Time stretches out on these hills.

I arrived with traces of melancholy. Nick Drake’s “Place to Be” could be this place and time’s soundtrack — not because I’m sad, but because I’ve stopped needing to be happy all the time. Each day unfolds with unspoken simplicity. From the moment I wake to the second I lay my head down on the pillow, everything quietly makes sense. My resting heart rate has settled into a lull.

Each morning, I start my day hiking with a pack of dogs, and in the afternoons, I run. By day’s end, my body is worn out but buzzing with relaxation. I feel strong again.

In Morro Bay, I run along a beach that always seems to be at low tide. I send photos of the giant rock there to loved ones — its hulking presence breaking through the marine layer, green flecks glittering when the sun touches its face.

No matter how far I run, it never seems closer or farther away — it stays constant.

Wet tar cements to my ankles, sinking into my shoes. What happens when the pipers and cranes ingest it? I can only hope they’ve learned to avoid the sticky black orbs that wash ashore better than I have.

A small galaxy has formed beneath one of my big toenails — blood trapped and swirling, lifting the nail like a tide. It threatens to fall off every time I run. It’s healed, worsened, and healed again since the marathon two months ago. Will I lose it, or will it hang on?

This uncomplicated routine — hiking, writing, reading, running — settles me into my bones.

Still, most days, I have a childlike impulse to call my mother, just to hear her voice. We play phone tag, and the days go on. She must be busy — I wonder if I bother her with this constant need, this yearning to be close. But how else do we learn to be close, if not from our mothers? Aren’t we always needing our mothers?

The world feels off, strange in a way that only seems to be deepening. I’ve been trying to find my way back to something I lost, something quieter and more honest.

That’s one reason I finally let go of Instagram. For too long, playing the game of social media numbed me: everyone was performing, selling, curating. Now, without those quick hits of dopamine, I’ve been paying more attention to what actually fills my days — and what doesn’t.

This makes me consider my happiness.

A few days ago, my friend and I listened to a podcast about the World Happiness Report. America didn’t make the top ranks, which didn’t surprise me. What surprised me was the outrage: “How could we not be number one?”

We’ve confused winning with joy. We’ve lost the point.

In the afternoon, my friend brings me freshly cut flowers from the wild, chaotic rose bush growing outside her bedroom window. That’s how everything grows here — outrageously, beautifully, without form or function.

And I’ve arrived here at the moment before pruning.
Before the cut.
Before the death and rebirth.

Everything right now is teeming with life.

I’m falling in love with her dogs; she has three.

Two I thought might eat my dog, Hubbell, but instead they cover her in slobbery kisses. They follow her around and kiss her every time she moves, makes a noise, breathes.

How overwhelmed my dog seems by their affection — but how lovely it is to be loved like that: immediately, and without condition.

I dream at night of kissing someone faceless. I wake up free.

Free to want.
Free to love again —
Not worried about the when or how.

Instead, I drink coffee in bed and read Hervé Guibert:
“I detach myself at once from these temptations, become serene, the certainty of this adventure.”

The sun’s already warming the room, even before I’ve lifted the shades. I open the door to a field — tall grass, squirrel-ridden trees. Another lovely day ahead.

Later, I sit beside one of the big dogs. I’m holding onto nothing — no book, no phone, no drink.

My hands feel empty. I consider grabbing a book or my journal and a pen, but I resist the impulse to do anything.

So I stay quiet and still, opening myself up to the clarity of a dog’s perspective. Together, we watch the vultures circling overhead, their eyes spotting the dead in ways we’re not meant to.

I’ve felt far from everything lately — from everyone. I was waiting for things to change, for me to change.

But maybe this isn’t such a terrible place to be. Maybe the waiting was the change — what I needed to become.

This can be the place I let go — untether, and begin again.

Faces I’ve known for years —
people I’ve watched change,
people who’ve seen me change —
no longer feel familiar.

I’m afraid no one knows how to talk to me unless they’re holding a glass of alcohol.

I fear my old life is haunting me.

I feel stuck, antsy —
like I should be somewhere else,
doing something different.

I want to move to a different state.
I know it won’t “fix” me —
but it might open up something.
A new world.
It’ll make me uncomfortable,
and discomfort is what I need to grow.

I’m being hard on myself, I know that —
for not being more,
for not doing the right things at the right time,
and not reaching for what I’m supposed to want.

But then I remember,
I’m only a year and a half clean.

Even though I feel like I’m doing nothing,
I’m actually doing the most important thing —
staying sober.

I’m safe.
Even happy.
I have freedom — to move, to explore, to start over, to stay.
That’s a beautiful place to be.

Things are easy right now.
And although moving won’t give me that thing I’m searching for,
it will offer me momentum.

It’s not a solution I’m looking for —
because this life isn’t a problem.

—

Sitting in a cafe.
Heart racing almost painfully,
thudding in my chest.

I wanted to ask the woman at the table next to me about the book she was writing.
I overheard her talking about it to a friend —
its themes mirrored something that’s been bouncing in my head for months,
too shy to touch the page.

All I wanted was to turn to her,
say something lovely.
I can picture her smiling, getting excited to talk about it.
But I stay hidden,
silent.

Why does the idea of connection terrify me?
Why is my face flushed,
my hands hot?

All I want is a shared moment
with a stranger,
over something we’re both passionate about.

Another time, the same coffee shop.
A woman around my age was crying quietly in the corner of the sunlit room,
next to the giant fiddle-leaf fig.

I wanted to buy her a chocolate chip cookie
and leave it at her table without a word.

I couldn’t.

I thought about paying for it,
whispering to the barista,
asking them to bring it to her after I’d left.

I couldn’t do that either.
I actually started shaking.
Disoriented by that same mysterious fear,
blood warming my cheeks.

Another time, a different coffee shop.
I was leaning over a table, whispering to a friend about a fleeting crush.
Just saying the girl’s name aloud made my heart jolt,
pins prickling my skin —
like it was a sin.
Like she could hear us talking about her.

What is that — fear? Embarrassment?

Why do these small, human moments feel unbearable?
Why do I get so scared to be seen?

—

Living in fear.
Worried to step on someone’s toes.
Scared to defend my own opinion.
Terrified of looking dumb.

Quick to get defensive.
Quicker to stay silent.

Lying awake at night,
wishing I had said something.

—

Intimacy.
I see strangers online
finding and advertising new lovers
immediately after a bad breakup.

And I don’t think they’re doing something wrong.
Or right.

But —
aren’t they avoiding the feeling?

I couldn’t imagine touching someone else
after my last breakup.

For a moment,
I thought maybe that’s what I wanted.

After a previous breakup,
I had immediately slept with someone else —
as if to blot out the pain,
erase the marks that love had left on me.

Stomp out the fire.
The hatred I felt for her.

But this last one —
I knew I couldn’t erase it.

I’d have to bear it.
All of it.

I went on a few dates
with someone kind.
Someone who maybe could have been good to me.

I thought I just wanted to feel wanted.
To be touched.

But then she looked at me —
like she really wanted to know me.

And I turned away in disgust.
Not at her.
At myself.

Because it turned out,
I didn’t want to be touched.
And I didn’t want to be known.

I didn’t want connection.

I needed to be alone.
To carry it.
To sit with it.
To let it hurt.

I have soft skin,
I wonder when I will be willing to let someone in.

Not everyone is a blocker — and good for them. Maybe they’ve never experienced the type of suffering that triggers one to make such a serious call, or maybe it’s easy enough for them to place a mental block on a person instead of a literal one. But no, that couldn’t be me. That isn’t harsh or final enough. Knowing me is a privilege, and I decide who gets to stay.

As Robin Williams’ character softly says in Good Will Hunting, “We get to choose who we let into our weird little worlds.” And I would add, we also get to choose who we kick out of them.

So here are a few situations I have found myself needing to block someone. Why don’t you tell me if you would have done the same?

1. The Disrespectful Friendship

The slow disintegration of this connection led me to block her — not because it felt like the best solution, but because it was the only way to prevent myself from giving more to someone who no longer seemed to care. It felt like the only way to say "no" to a situation where I felt powerless. Yet, each time I tap that bright red button, I wonder if it makes me weak or immature. Not everyone resorts to blocking when hurt, so why do I? Is it a reflection of the people who hurt me, or of me?

Blocking my friend felt like the only option left, as every interaction caused me so much pain. After over a decade of close friendship, all that remained were empty exchanges, and her insincere interest deepened the widening gap between us. When I mentioned how strange things felt, the conversation still never felt genuine—she often deflected or avoided sharing her own feelings. I needed sincerity, but each time we spoke, I felt even more alone.

When I blocked her, I hoped it would bring closure, but even now, I find myself questioning whether it was the best way to handle the situation. Although I recognized that the relationship had deteriorated, I still contemplated whether completely shutting the door was necessary or even the right choice.

2. The Toxic Ex-Romantic Partner

Blocking wasn’t always used to protect myself. My first experience with it came from a toxic, on-again, off-again relationship in my early twenties, where it was more a tool for terror and avoidance than self-preservation. Back then, romantic love was associated with intensity and drama. Whenever one of us hurt the other, we’d take turns blocking each other, only to find ways to bypass it — dialing *67 to show up as "Unknown Caller," sending a barrage of emails, or showing up at each other’s front doors with pathetic bouquets and handwritten apologies. At the time, it felt romantic — our way of showing we cared and would never give up on each other. Of course, that relationship ended in fiery flames, and the block remained, permanent and final.

3. Difficult Family Dilemmas

The need to protect my emotional well-being extended beyond my platonic and romantic relationships; it also influenced my decisions regarding family. I muted my brother before he died because our interactions were full of frustration and pain. It wasn’t him reaching out — it was his alcoholism, a painful reminder that, long before he passed away, I had already lost him. I regret not answering his messages before he died, but I now understand that my actions reflected my inability to cope with his struggle.

This need for emotional safety continued with my father, whose behavior also led me to make a tough decision. I blocked him after he sent me cruel, threatening text messages about other family members. I didn’t speak to him again until the year before he died. I chose to reopen the dialogue because he was sick, and I took pity on him. I don’t regret blocking him all those years, but I wish I had shown more compassion during his final months. Instead, I left many of his messages unanswered.

While blocking or muting them felt like the right choice at the time, it left me questioning whether more emotional understanding could have been possible in their final days. I will never know, but the pain of their loss is a reminder that sometimes, in our efforts to shield ourselves from hurt, we sometimes avoid the very healing we need.

Blocking is permanent; it cauterizes the wound, making it a difficult but necessary step toward healing. It’s a way to regain control when someone has taken it away and serves as reassurance that everything will be okay after someone leaves you clutching the left side of your chest in woeful agony.

While I’ve rarely regretted blocking someone, I have muted or cut off a few people who later passed away, which made me question if this is always the healthiest way to deal with my hurt.

I’ve come to understand that it is completely situational and entirely up to you whether you choose to untether yourself from another human being by blocking them. It’s a necessary and useful tool for me — lest a rope forever bind me to those who cause immense suffering.

What would it take for you to block someone?

But as dependable as it is, that comfort comes with a layer of guilt. I ask myself: Is this pill a safe option for someone who’s struggled with addiction? Sure, it’s not as dependency-forming as Ambien or Xanax, but where is the line between habit and dependency? And will I always need to take something to doze off? Does that make me weak?

I wonder: What am I afraid of in that small space between wakefulness and sleep?

I used to use substances to numb the pain of living, and now I rely on Benadryl to quiet my mind before rest. It’s a different form of the same cycle — an attempt to cut through the static.

The fear of needing to do or take something to quiet the restless mind isn’t unique to me; we all have ways of coping, even if they’re not as obvious (or dangerous). Some of us turn to food, exercise, or work, while others numb with television, social media, or unhealthy relationships. It’s all an effort to silence the noise of our inner worlds.

Now I’m clean, but I still have to sit with myself. I scroll every night until I can’t keep my eyes open, drawn to the mess of the world around me — the fear, the hatred, the sense of a crumbling society — because that chaos somehow feels more familiar than the discomfort of sitting alone with my thoughts.

In this ongoing journey of recovery, I often wonder where the line is between genuinely caring for myself and falling into old patterns of self-destruction.

During my active addiction, I’d take a sleep aid after using stimulants, lying in bed uncomfortably, tossing and turning, my heart thudding more urgently, and I wondered if I would wake the following morning. I’d tell myself I was perfectly okay, although unconvinced. I knew mixing Benadryl with cocaine was dangerous, but I had done it before, and nothing bad had happened. The risk of harm or even death was insignificant compared to the need to calm my discomfort.

Using a sleep aid would help calm my overactive heart, ease my tense muscles, loosen my grip on the pillow as I toss and turn, and allow me to keep my eyes shut against the fear of the encroaching darkness.

Relax, I’d tell myself. It’s not like I’m drifting off forever. Even if that was going to happen, would it be so bad? Yes, I’d tell Myself — I had no interest in dying. Then why do you keep doing this to yourself? What are you dancing around whenever you succumb to your weakness and pick up? What do you think this life will lead to? The goal was never to die but to find a shortcut through the pain and grief of living.

Drugs and alcohol helped numb my grief and get me through each day. I relied on substances to wake up, complete tasks, socialize, calm down, and lastly, to sleep — Benadryl being my final aid. At the time, I believed my suffering to be uniquely unbearable, but now I see it as a shared aspect of the human condition.

I’ve tried to quit Benadryl before, thinking it was a weakness. But now I accept that it serves a purpose — for now. When the time comes, I’ll stop, not out of guilt, but because I won’t need it anymore. What matters isn’t just quitting but knowing I can sit with myself, no matter how uncomfortable it gets.

On Wednesday morning, I woke to my 6:30 a.m. alarm, the phone buzzing almost soundlessly on the windowsill. My first waking thought was to hit the snooze for a few minutes, but I fought the urge and turned off the alarm instead. My second thought was, had the fires been contained at all?

In my half-awake state, I pulled on some running clothes, grabbed a guava-flavored Celsius from the fridge, and hurried outside to my car. The sky was ominously dark and ashen gray, and the air lay thick and heavy around me. I was forty minutes south of the Los Angeles fires, so it was alarming that breathing felt like pulling weight. This was unsafe weather to run in — the air quality index where I was heading was 176, well above unhealthy levels, and the wind had picked up dramatically — but I couldn’t disappoint the team waiting for me in South Gate.

For the past few months, I have been running with people in addiction treatment centers. I coach and train them for 5Ks, 10Ks, and half-marathons, but essentially, we’re working out together and talking about life. I share where I’m at in my recovery, how I got here, my struggles, etc., and they share their experiences with me. My Wednesday group is from a treatment center in South Gate, just north of Compton and Downey. It’s far enough from the fires that I knew we wouldn’t be in danger, but close enough that being outside felt unnerving. As I drove up the freeway, the sky turned a reddish-grey. When I arrived at 8 a.m., it was so dark you’d think it might rain — but I knew these weren’t rain clouds. I walked up to the men waiting in front of the facility for me, the wind whipping the falling soot sideways, stinging my eyes and catching in my mouth. I wished I had N95 masks for all of us.

The group was a decent size that morning, with 12 men eager to get outside. They often tell me that running is a great distraction from their usual meeting-intensive days and that they need this outlet to relieve the frustration and anxiety that build up while in treatment. To their disappointment, I informed everyone that we could not run due to the air quality and would take a long walk instead.

Addiction treatment centers vary in length of stay; this one is shorter, around three months, with some residents graduating even sooner. Many of the individuals here are formerly incarcerated, making this rehab their first step toward reintegration. Just as I begin to bond and build rapport with these men, they leave the facility, and a new group arrives. I don’t usually get the chance to say goodbye.

My current favorite, Rodrigo*, is always by my side. He insists on running on the side that protects me from incoming traffic. While jogging, he carries coffee in a travel mug, a habit I find both impressive and ridiculous.

Rodrigo grew more frustrated during Wednesday's walk than I’d ever seen him. When we reached the halfway point of our session, I asked the group to turn back. We were nowhere near the large park where we usually run, and his disappointment was painfully evident. But his frustration felt bigger than just the shortened session. It wasn’t just about the ash in the air or the distance we hadn’t covered — it was the helplessness we were all carrying. The lack of control over everything — the fires, the wind, maybe even recovery — weighed heavily on him, and I could feel it, too. I apologized for the brief outing, explaining the health hazards of being outside that day, and promised we’d run the full four-mile loop next week.

But as I spoke, I felt the uncertainty in my words. I wanted to believe the fires would be extinguished by then, the ash-clouded skies would clear, and Los Angeles could breathe again. But the Santa Ana winds are in control of what comes next.

After I dropped the men back at the facility and we said our goodbyes — some tried for hugs, while I countered with a fist bump — I headed to my car. I got inside, sprayed the windshield wiper fluid, and waited as the thin layer of ash dissolved, streaking away in pale clumps.

*Name changed.