days 61-68—letting the light in

“What are you doing here?” My voice cracked as my arms lunged forward, my body moving before my mind could catch up. Tears welled and spilled over as I collided into my dad, his familiar warmth grounding me in the moment.

He had been hiding in the kitchen of my aunt’s cozy, ranch-style home, nestled along the winding canals of Boca Ciega Bay, waiting for the perfect moment to reveal himself.

We had just completed the ~20-hour drive from Texas, with a pit stop in Louisiana to celebrate the nuptials of dear friends, Zac and Maggie.

We had come to Florida to see family, but not this family. He had just been here a few weeks ago, and we had lamented over barely missing each other. Yet, unbeknownst to me, a quiet conspiracy had been in motion since the night of our engagement.

I wiped my tears on the back of my sleeve, laughing through the shock as I turned to Trent. “Did you know about this?”

He shook his head, his smile widening. “Not until a few minutes ago.” My aunt had slipped him the secret while giving him a tour of the house, letting him in on the surprise while I caught up with my uncle.

I hugged my dad again, longer this time, needing to feel the solid weight of him, to be sure he was truly there and not a figment of longing conjured by wishful thinking.

When I finally stepped back, I let the moment settle around me, drinking in the faces of several people who had shaped me. My dad—the one who stayed. My uncle, John—who never let his pride go unannounced. His wife, Marni, and her sister, Eileen—bound not by blood, but an unshakeable sense of family. And Trent—my compass and safe haven.

A warmth spread through me, deeper than surprise, richer than elation. It was the unmistakable feeling of belonging, of unconditional love. And it couldn’t have come at a better time.

I had been in a funk the week prior. Despite exploring the beautiful city of Austin, I wanted to crawl into a hole, settle in, and take up residence. Maybe tend to a garden, sip coffee from a lawn chair, and let the world move around me, unhurried yet compliant.

I felt like a passenger in my own life. Sitting in the back seat, my shoulder shifting against the door, as I gazed out the window at all the things passing me by. Never asked to choose the music, just left listening. A part of the conversation, but voices never raised loud enough to hear it. Present, yet powerless

Maybe it was seasonal. Maybe it was the ache of homesickness. Or maybe it was the fire hose of sorrowing information, an unrelenting current of grief and chaos that I’m unconvinced any of us know how to process.

Trent, my anchor, remained steadfast as ever, but even he couldn’t pull me to shore—I had to swim. For days, I grappled with the doubt of whether I could make it. But then, I stepped through that door, and suddenly, I found myself no longer swimming alone.

Depression is like a volcano: it can lie dormant for months, even years, and then, without warning—an eruption. The sun could be shining, or the sky could match the storm inside you, but it doesn’t matter. You never see it coming. And just as quickly as it arrives, it vanishes, leaving behind only a fleeting path of confusion.

Before our arrival, I felt like I was sifting through the ash, unsure of what I’d find. But then, I walked through that door and saw my dad. And just like that, the weight in my chest loosened, like a dense fog finally dispersing. The doors to the hollow space I had been retreating into swung open, and I let the light pour in.

In the days that followed, I did everything I could to stay present, my phone’s whereabouts unaccounted for as we revisited my favorite places through new lenses.

We searched for shells along Treasure Island, a young boy, no more than seven, showing us where to find the best ones before opening his palm to one he wanted me to keep.

We swapped stories over fresh seafood, boated along the intercoastal, and joined in celebration for baby Sophi—the latest family addition.

When it was time to say farewell to family, we crossed the Howard Franklin bridge to meet up with friends in Tampa, where laughter and joy were in abundance.

We toured my alma mater, pointing out a decade’s worth of changes to the University of Tampa’s campus; ran along Bayshore in the heat of the afternoon sun, cheered on the Lightning as they pulled a win over Canada, indulged at Daily Eats, and donned inflatable suits over drinks and dancing to celebrate my 32nd.

There I was, fuller than ever, and the familiar sensation of light, warmth, and steadiness enveloped me, filling the spaces where darkness had taken hold. For the first time in days, I let it stay.