There’s something about summer that tastes like childhood—like cotton candy melting on your tongue, the sweat-streaked joy of running barefoot through sprinklers, and the thick, humid air clinging to your skin like a second memory. For many of us, childhood summers weren’t just a season—they were a feeling, both golden and haunting. A tangle of joy and ache, laughter and longing.
I remember the beach—sand hot enough to burn the soles of my feet, saltwater drying on my skin in itchy white patches, the ocean stretching out like a secret too big to tell. I also remember woods that felt like wonderlands, where neighborhood kids built forts from fallen branches and told stories that blurred truth and imagination. We played until the fireflies blinked awake, calling us home with their quiet glow.
Sticky fingers from funnel cake. The dizzy spin of the fair ride. The way cotton candy dissolved like a promise in your mouth. These memories live somewhere deep, saturated with sugar and sunburn.
But sweetness, when left too long in the heat, can rot.
For me, childhood was never just sweet. It was sickly sweet. The kind of sweetness that coats the throat until you choke on it. I lived with terror braided into love, fear hidden behind dance videos and neighborhood games. There were good days—so many good days—but even they carried an undertone, like music just slightly out of tune. The ache of knowing something wasn’t right, even if I couldn’t name it yet.
Summers were an escape and a stage. They offered a temporary forgetting, a sunlit performance of normalcy. But fear doesn’t take summers off. It lingers in the shadows of trees, in the sudden hush of a too-quiet room, in the spaces between laughter.
Still, summer taught me how to survive. How to sweat it out, how to keep moving. How to seek the joy that did exist—because it did. I loved those dance videos I made with friends, choreographing moves in the driveway under the unforgiving sun. I loved the way the beach felt like freedom. I loved the neon thrill of fairs, the creak of rides, the way the world seemed so big and full of color under carnival lights.
And I still carry those memories. They are sticky, yes—messy and complicated. But they are mine. They are the evidence that even in a childhood threaded with trauma, joy can take root and grow wild.
As adults, we often look back on childhood as either idyllic or painful. But most of us lived in the in-between. The real summer of childhood was neither perfect nor tragic. It was a paradox: sunshine and shadows. A sweet that stuck to the skin, both comforting and cloying.
Maybe that’s what makes summer memories so powerful. They remind us that beauty and pain often arrive hand in hand. That even in the hardest moments, joy is still possible—and sometimes, all the more precious for it.
I’m in my mid-thirties and still haven’t figured my career out. I got my Master’s Degree in something I didn’t like. After a trip out west and two years of soul searching, I found my dream career taking care of plants, only to become diagnosed with an autoimmune disorder that prevents me from working full time in the industry. I have had to constantly pivot. It’s destabilizing. Not having a steady income can bring out feelings of utter worthlessness and embarrassment, especially at my age.
I finally figured out my new career path as a yoga instructor. I found a studio that I loved and found out when they were offering their certification program, excited to hear the beginning of January. I shared my excitement with friends and family at holiday parties.
Then life happened.
I sprained my right foot. I can’t drive or put weight on it for a month, then we have to reevaluate from there. I am three weeks in, so the yoga program must be put on hold. My doctor did not approve my program. This puts me back 6-12 months! I was crushed.
What am I going to do? I have a bum foot that can’t withstand anything and I can’t drive, so I sit on the couch all day alone. I simmer in resentment and fury. I have been getting lost in self-pity.
But then I’ll sit on the porch and breathe in the crispy clean, winter air. I sit in silence and look at the bare trees. They don’t look pretty. They don’t provide much shade or protection. They’re not sustaining a ton of wildlife right now.
However – I stare at them in awe.
I know how beautiful and helpful they’ll be in the spring. I know they’ll provide much needed shade for me in the summer heat. I know they’ll put on a magnificent show of oranges and reds in the fall. I know they’ll lay witness to hundred of births of baby birds. Fruit and purpose are right around the corner for the trees. They need time to reset.
So I’ll take the advice of the trees that have outlived my ancestors. I’ll follow their wise advice and practice patience in this time of darkness and uncertainty. I know I’ll bloom again when I’m meant to.
It was a clear summer morning and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Families were pouring out of their cars in droves, excited to finally send off their 18-year-old adult children to The Great Unknown. It is the most sacred tradition this community has upheld for centuries.
There’s an altar at the edge of a precipice, high up on their mountain. The 18-year-old will sit in between their parents, dead or alive, and all three of them will silently reflect on the life of the child. Once the altar has a sense of the life that was provided, a glass bowl will magically appear. This bowl is to be displayed near the front door of every home they inhabit. It stands as a visual reminder of the childhood the host has been provided with.
There was a beautiful girl, anxiously awaiting her turn. Her mom had tears of happiness and pride filling her eyes. She couldn’t believe her daughter was already old enough to venture into The Great Unknown. Raising her daughter at home full time was the biggest blessing of her life. She held hands with her daughter in line, exchanging excited grins. The dad stood stoically next to them, reminiscing on all of the lessons he and his family tried to teach the daughter. He hoped she would be presented with a beautiful bowl, but knew that whatever one she got, his daughter would proudly display.
As they sat quietly at the altar, a beautiful bowl appeared rather quickly. It was perfect! It was devoid of any cracks or imperfections. There were no chips or stains. The daughter smiled, thanked the altar, and accepted her bowl with gratitude. She was pleased with how clear it was, knowing it would match any home decor design she could ever choose.
Next up was a tall, skinny young man with acne littering his face. His mother looked very old and frail. He had to push her in her wheelchair to the altar. She looked exhausted by the whole ordeal. Her son never showed any signs of bitterness or resentment. As he settled in beside her in front of the altar, a man appeared next to them. The young man had goosebumps all over his skin. He didn’t even look over to see the spirit of his father who died when he was young. They all sat in total silence, heads bowed.
It seemed like the altar had a hard time distinguishing his life. It presented him with half of a bowl, then four large glass pieces and a shimmery gold liquid to bind it together. The dad disappeared into thin air, and the mother lovingly explained how to use to gold liquid to create a strong bowl. It took him a while to finish, but everyone cheered him on. As he walked away pushing the wheelchair, his mom proudly clung to the bowl smiling ear-to-ear. People kept complimenting the unique bowl.
As they said their goodbyes, she kissed him in between the eyes like she used to when he was a baby. She said, “Son, I am sorry for all the ways in which I ever let you down. You deserved a better father, home, and clothes. I wish I could have given you the perfect life…a life in which your heart never broke.”
The tall son got down on one knee so he was face to face with his mother. He took his hands and enveloped her small face in them, kissing her sweetly right between the eyes, like he did when he was a toddler. “Don’t ever apologize. You did the best you could with what you had, with little help from dad or the community. My life has been complex, but I always knew you had my back, loved me, and provided a safe place to sleep. I look at these gold imperfections with nothing but pride. I am a warrior. I want to remember every challenge you brought me through. We always made it to the other side, together. That’s all that matters.”
The day was coming to an end with only one young woman left on the mountain. No one knew she was there all day. She hid in the trees to avoid the sympathetic stares and empty, forced invitations to join strangers. She knew going last would eliminate any uncomfortable situations and didn’t mind waiting. She hadn’t see her dead parents in years and was quite nervous for the reunion. She was thankful for the time in the trees to gain her composure.
Her father brutally killed her mother when she was young. Then he tortured the young daughter every day of her life. He blamed the young child for the mother’s death because his conscience couldn’t handle the truth of what he did. After a few years, even the daughter believed it.
She slowly approached the altar reverently. She sat down and bowed her head, waiting to feel her parents souls appear beside her. She was shocked by how little she felt. She opened her eyes, but they weren’t there.
The altar started violently shaking and she backed away. She heard the beautiful call of a Mourning Dove, so she looked up only to see it being hunted by a hawk! She grabbed a rock to throw at the predator, but as the rock connected with the hawk, everything disappeared. The altar was gone. The birds were gone. She was left alone standing at the precipice…with no offering bowl.
Suddenly she started getting pelted with glass shards from the sky. She ran to the trees for coverage! When glass stopped falling from the sky, the young woman slowly approached the pile. Alligator tears swarmed her eyes, but she never let them fall. She quietly opened her backpack that was stuffed with packing paper, which she intended to use to wrap her bowl with. She covered her hands with the paper as best as she could and scooped the glass shards into her backpack.
By the time she was done collecting all the pieces she could, her hands were sliced and bleeding everywhere. She tried wiping them on her shirt, but felt razor blades. She knew small glass pieces were inevitably being lodged into her skin. She zipped up her backpack, gathered some moss from the forest floor, and wrapped them in leaves.
As she ventured into The Great Unknown, she wondered how long it would take her to build a bowl out of the pieces. She thought to herself, does blood permanently stain glass?
It was a gorgeous summer morning in 2024 and I was working at my dream job. I had my headphones in and listened to bird songs and nature tracks. I was in my own floral explosion world watering and pruning. I thought I heard a man yelling, so I took my ear buds out and located the anger.
The man was screaming, quite scarily, into a cell phone. He had papers in his hand. I purposely moved away from him because his energy was on fire. He went inside the store and I breathed a sigh of relief. In full transparency, I got scared. America is storing some of the darkest energy right now and you never know what people are capable of when their anger is spilling over into their words and actions.
10 minutes later he comes back out and looks around like he’s trying to find something. He locks eyes with me and starts hoofing it towards me. I ripped my earbuds out and felt fear, but remained calm. He started punching things in on his phone as I stared at him quizzically. Then his phone started spitting out things in English and he pushed it into my hand. I noticed it was a translator app and the languages were Russian and English.
We had a long back and forth conversation. He told me that he just arrived in America and has to be at a factory job tonight at 9pm with printed paperwork. I knew the place I worked had copiers, so I brought him back in with me. Surely my co-workers would oblige? This man is trying to get a fair job and all we have to do is print one piece of paper for him.
False. They were jerks. I was speechless! I couldn’t believe they wouldn’t do it and they kept spouting off corporate policy. I was enraged! I told him to follow me back outside by the flowers. I told him he needed to get to a public library or Staples where he get copies made because that’s how America is. However – he didn’t have a car and these places are miles away.
He was getting frustrated and I was feeling terrible for him. He kept pointing out gas station, fast food chains, and grocery stores that enveloped us.
“Sister, why not these places? I don’t have a car and I can’t be late to my first day!!”
Each time he addressed me he said, “Sister.” I’m sure that’s a cultural thing, but it made my heart grow exponentially for him. I wanted nothing more than to do all of it for him. I can’t imagine being an immigrant in a foreign country and not understanding their rules and regulations.
I tried my hardest to push him to get to a library or print center, but I don’t think he had any way of getting there on time. He said he was sure Taco Bell would print it for him, which I knew they wouldn’t. I told him,
“I’m so sorry you’re going through this. I’m glad you’re here. But America is greedy. Even for one piece of paper, they want you to pay for it. I wish it wasn’t this way, but it is. I know it’s not kind or helpful, but my hands are tied.”
I could tell my answer infuriated him as he shoved his phone in his pocket. It was clear he was done talking to me. I felt disheartened. Then out of no where he said, “Thank you, sister,” and gave me a tight hug. He spoke something in his mother tongue that seemed kind and he patted his heart.
I cried as he walked away and texted my husband and sisters. I told them how thankful I was for our blessings and asked for them to pray for him. I always wonder if he ever found kindness and was able to start his job? I pray he has found safety in America. Remember to always be kind.
I’ve been reading my book outside in the cold spring air. The sun is shining and I’m not moody or anxious. I can breathe out here. My book is about a mother telling her three adult daughters how, when you’re older, you don’t care to go to the carnival anymore…you don’t believe in Santa or the Easter Bunny. The magic of life is drained away and you have to deal with reality. You hold all sides of life – the boring, the mundane, the evils, the triumphs, and the beauty. She was trying to explain to them that loving their stable, boring father was infinitely better than loving her famous actor boyfriend in her 20’s. They couldn’t believe her.
It hit me with a hard dose of reality. I can remember being young, naive, and in love. My husband, then boyfriend, was only good. We went to carnivals, on bike rides, to parties, to ice cream shops, bought Easter baskets, and had fun at bowling alleys. We knew life had hardships because our parents were killed when they were young, but we were young enough to compartmentalize the evil because the high of young love was so great.
I have tears slowly streaming down my face at the nostalgia of it all.
This makes his hand on the small of my back the other day 10 times more special.
Being in a romantic relationship with someone for 16 years, I’ve experienced the magic falling away. It’s hard to connect with, or even remember, the highs of the honeymoon phase because it’s not our normal anymore. We’ve been through financial hardships, affairs, therapy, family wars, substance misuse, and career changes. We became adults, when we used to be kids. Love used to be our only job and we did it so well. Our rose colored glasses faded to clear lenses. We see life for what it really is – impossibly hard and innately beautiful. We appreciate the hardships because the calluses make our bond stronger everyday. We have a silent underlying fear of losing one another because our lives have become one. How could one exist without the other? We are each other’s home.
As I have been housebound for four months, I have become an expert at watching tv. After my surgery, we binged Breaking Bad. It was horrific. The season finale made me want to vomit. Seeing Walt abandon his family and leave them in financial and emotional ruin brought up all of the demons from my distant past…the dark house, the absent parent hardened by immense grief, the broken teenager, the new normal of fantasizing about the warm past. I cried so many tears. We picked Young Sheldon after it because it was lighthearted and funny. This was our second rewatch. I used to love it and laugh at it, but knowing George dies in the end taints every season. I didn’t want to see their comfortable living and small world problems anymore, knowing that soon enough they would be struck with insurmountable grief. I can’t unsee the last season and feel the full joy of the previous seasons. They’re tainted. I want to yell through the screen, “Savor this! Stop fighting about stupid stuff because George won’t be there soon!!”
I remember my therapist telling me that she had to censor what her oldest child watches because she was deeply affected by emotionally charged shows. I thought it was ridiculous, but now I understand because it happens to me too. My life is rich with deeply felt emotions. While I sob at people dying, others watch it dry eyed. They can’t connect to something they haven’t experienced. My past washes over me as the scenes nail every emotion I’ve tried to forget. I have catalogued every emotion under the sun.
I’m bitter that my past has controlled my present and future. I hate that my glasses were only rose colored for the first four years of my life, while others have them into their 40’s. I didn’t bring kids into this world based on my own experience. I projected my trauma onto my unborn. They never materialized because I was doing the most heroic thing a mother can ever do – protect her kids from evil. I prevented the heartache of being bullied, the high statistical possibility of sexual abuse, financial ruin, of losing a parent to an untimely death, their first heartbreak, prejudice, and failing health. I took the bullet for them. They never asked for the gift of a hard life…they never asked for life at all.
But is that fair? Is my lack of an easy, beautiful, rich life their fault? Is my inability to immerse myself, and believe, in the innate good of the world their problem?
Maybe I missed the point of life entirely. Instead of striving to provide the perfect life for them, I should have accepted the reality of a nuanced life. Maybe a child’s love could have healed my broken heart enough to make me a good enough mother. Maybe the bond with my child, my own flesh and blood, could have given me the chance of redemption…a path to a beautiful life for the both of us. I could try with all my might to keep their world rosy long enough to withstand the certainty of an unfair world. I could give them the gift of a safe, warm, stable childhood that could soothe their broken adult hearts. I could lay a path so stable that my own insecurities would never bleed into theirs. I could fail again and again as a mother, yet still be humble enough to accept their ultimate forgiveness that they would be equipped to give because I modeled it enough times. I could be the definition of unconditional love that they could always reference. I could be their safe space to land, even after death.
I’m 34 years old and lost my mom in a tragic accident when I was 14. Then my dad died of a sudden heart attack when I was 31. I hardly have any memories of my mom left, and by the time my dad died, we’d hadn’t spoken in 4 years.
I have been having mysterious health issues and the specialists are trying to figure out the issue. When I met my Rheumatologist for the first time, he spent an hour going over my intake form with me meticulously line-by-line. When he got to the family history list, he saw that both of my parents were deceased.
“Both of your parents have died. Am I reading that correctly?” I clinically confirmed, “Yes. My mom was killed in a car accident and my dad died from a sudden, unexpected heart attack.” I think he was waiting for me to have some emotion, but it never came.
His young eyebrows pinned together, puzzled by my lack of outward emotion and said, “Wow. That must be really difficult. I can’t imagine not having my parents or family.” I light-heartedly agreed and signaled to move on. I knew if he kept probing I might lose it.
When my parents died, I found it hard to speak to people about it. I hated breaking down in tears and becoming inaudible. It is the thing that makes me feel the weakest. So I would turn to the trees. I’d go on long walks, alone at night, and cry/scream at the sky or simply talk about my day…things I would call my parents about. It was pitiful, but healing.
I had huge trees all around my neighborhood. They towered over me at night like a blanket. After big storms, some of my favorites would be the victims of high winds and lightning. I would tear up for a couple of days when I passed them. It was hard for me to accept, but I got used to it.
Unlike humans, grieving for a tree is relatively quick and painless. I miss it, but I know that something else will fill its place. It’s a space of opportunity. I saw a man use a chainsaw to create a chair out of the left over trunk. I saw multiple people create natural flower pots out of the stumps. One person inserted his flag pole in it. And a lot of people left them alone and new growth would come.
Isn’t that just like life? Losing people is HARD. They took a piece of my soul with them. I wasn’t whole anymore and it takes time to rebuild. I can’t throw dirt in it and plant beautiful flowers. I have to give myself grace and grieve what I had, what I lost, and what I’ll never get.
As of today, I don’t think I want to have children. They won’t have grandparents and I won’t have a mom to call in the middle of the night when I’m panicked or broken. I won’t get to see my dad teaching them everything and anything that has to do with the woods. There will be no vacations or Christmas’ with my family of origin.
My heart is still tender. It was a huge milestone when I lost both of my parents. It’s like I’m lost and floating at sea all alone. No one holds my past. It’s been erased. I have no one to flex that muscle with, so it atrophied and died. I must exist in the present moment only. I have no past to bring into it.
When I lost my vantage point of where I came from, life became scarier. Who could I depend on if I got sick/unemployed/something catastrophic? No one. My heart has been so hardened by their deaths, that it’s nearly impossible for me to depend on anyone.
Just like the trees.
Whatever trauma trees go through, it shows. They will always have the bump and inner rings of where a limb was. They will show cracks and bark skinning. It will shape them forever. They can scar just as easily as we can. It does take time for them to heal and they never quit going. They instinctually know to grow where the light leads them.
At the end of the day, that’s all I can try to do too.
Lessons From Nature 