Well, I’ve been in it the last few weeks.

Grades submitted. Yearbooks distributed. Seniors graduated. Classroom packed. Another year—my 26th—tucked away in the dusty archives of public education. And now, summer stretches out in front of me like a blank page… which should feel liberating. It should.

But Thursday night, with all the to-dos finally done, I found myself sitting at the dinner table with a little hum of anxiety buzzing beneath my skin. Not the big kind. More like a low-grade existential hum.

Because here’s the truth: I’ve never had a summer that wasn’t already spoken for. At sixteen, I had my first job. And since then, every summer has been crammed with the things I had to do—working, moving across the country (more than once), taking grad school classes, visiting family, attending teacher trainings. I’ve snuck in vacations when I could—Atlantic City, Boston, Curacao, Granada, Key West, a Greek Island cruise. But they were squeezed in, like an afterthought. A reward for surviving another school year, not space to actually rest.

Even when I moved back to San Diego, I had this dream of becoming That Person—the one who returns from break all sun-kissed and blissed out and says, “Oh, I just spent the summer at the beach.” But I never quite got there. Too many excuses. Too much waiting around for someone to come with me.

And now there’s no excuses. No schedule. Just me. Solo. While Jen is at work and the kiddo heads to summer camp as a counselor in training, I’m in a life I’ve built from the ground up after a long season of hard unraveling.

So why the hell does it feel scary?

I think it’s because—for the first time ever—I’m in a position where I feel safe, held, and supported enough to ask myself: “What do I even want?”

And I… don’t entirely know.

It’s weird, honestly. I’ve done so much healing the last few summers, but this feels different. Like I’ve been hibernating for a long, long time, and now I’m blinking into the sunlight, wondering who I even am outside of trauma responses and teacher burnout and grief survival mode.

It’s giving… baby eaglet on a branch vibes.

Which brings me to the nest cam.
Today, one of the Big Bear eaglets fledged—launched off the nest for the first time, wings stretched out, unsure but determined. And I sat there watching that moment like a soft-hearted Disney side character, eyes full of tears, heart full of metaphors. Because same, little bird. Fucking same.

This might be my fledging season.

Not into the next job. Not into a new relationship or some dramatic reinvention. Just… into the life I already have. The peaceful, beautiful, uneventful one I never thought I’d get. The one where I get to decide what I want to do—not based on survival or obligation—but on joy. Rest. Curiosity. Presence.

This afternoon, I went to acupuncture for a little spiritual tune-up, and my good witch healer gave me exactly the start I was looking for. I walked out feeling re-aligned and a little more brave. Magic, truly.

So I bought myself a rad beach chair.
A new beach bag with a waterproof key fob pocket.
A big ass straw hat.
A flappy sand-shading sheet.
A few good books.
Some new bathing suits.
And headphones that double for gym sessions and sea-gazing solitude.

And maybe, just maybe, I’ll actually become That Person this year. The one who says, “I spent my summer at the beach”.

Even if I have to wrestle with sand and sunscreen and the existential crisis of not having anyone to complain to or anything to complain about while I’m there.

I had a similar dilemma when I started writing this blog a few years ago in this new chapter of my life—wondering what I might say now that there are no villains, no tragic plot twists, no fresh heartbreaks to mine for meaning. Who am I if I’m not telling a story of survival?

And now I wonder… Who am I when left entirely to my own devices, with nothing expected of me except my own happiness?

I don’t know yet. But I’ve got a beach chair, a big hat, a freshly realigned spirit, and time to figure it out.

And just like that eaglet, I think I’m ready to see what my wings can do.