Postcards From Dirt

Tag: writing

  • When We Thought We Were Immortal

    When We Thought We Were Immortal

    I made an 80s pop playlist and listening to it transports me right back to my 20s, when life was an adventure and anything felt possible.

    That phase of life was special, stepping into adulthood without really knowing what it meant, for some of us it started with college, first jobs for others, making our own decisions, our own money, our own mistakes, learning what worked and what didn’t.

    There was a wild freedom then, being on our own for the first time, with rent barely covered, living on ramen, and very little sleep, staying out too late because it felt like the night might actually lead somewhere. Some of us took it further, drank too much, taking long road trips with very little cash in our pockets, rolling in on fumes, broke, no cell phones, no safety net, just believing we’d figure it out when we got there.

    Relationships felt bigger, more urgent, we fell in love fast and got our hearts broken, then did it again.

    Life pulled people in different directions, different schools, different cities, different paths, and yet we all shared this soundtrack, the same songs playing in different apartments, different cars, different bars, connecting moments that weren’t actually shared in person.

    Music does that, it pulls a thread you didn’t realize was still there, and suddenly you’re back in a room you haven’t thought about in years, with people you haven’t seen, feeling a version of yourself you almost forgot.

    That’s what this playlist is, not just songs, but a snapshot of who we were when everything was starting, when we were immortal.

    Press play and see what comes back.

    https://music.amazon.com/user-playlists/9c54406612d34d328862e00903681b52sune?ref=dm_sh_IlvBqjYss3VJPz26i62wDWNU1

  • Take the Risk

    Take the Risk

    I was 23 the summer I fell in love.

    We had summer jobs at a resort in one of the most spectacular places I’ve ever seen. Towering mountains, shimmering lakes, wildflower meadows that stretched forever. We lived right there, surrounded by all of it, and soaked in the kind of freedom and possibility that only exist when you’re young and your whole life is in front of you.

    He was kind. Smart. Funny. And he made me believe in myself again. That summer, he made me feel like I mattered. Like I was worthy. I didn’t even realize how much I needed that until it happened. And I fell in love.

    But I never told him.

    I was terrified of rejection and I believed it was inevitable. I thought saying the words would ruin the connection we had. So I stayed silent. And when the season ended, I let him drive away—without me, without asking him to stay, without asking him to take me with him.

    I thought I was protecting my heart. But by letting fear decide, I guaranteed that it would be broken.

    That summer changed my life. 

    We grew up. Lived our lives. Built families.

    As my children grew, I made sure to pass along something I wish I’d understood back then:

    • Take the risk
    • Say how you feel
    • Love out loud  

    Because if you live in fear of rejection, you guarantee the regret.

    I don’t know that if we met today it would be the same. We’re different people now. I don’t wish I could find him to see if something is still there.

    In fact, I think that might ruin the memories I’ve carried all these years, the dreams of what might have been.

    I’ll never know. And maybe that’s the most bittersweet part of all.