The night air is 71 degrees, the cicadas low and steady, and I’m full of chips and salsa—again. But underneath all that comfort is this feeling I know too well: insecurity.
It lives deep down, where the dark anglerfish roam. A matchstick light leading the way, illuminating the mushiest, muddiest silt. That spongy chill where the truth sloshes quietly: I’m not special.
And still, I want to be something. If even just to you. But that kind of closeness, that level of intimacy, also chills me to the bone.
This leads me back to my mantra—since either way I choose is hard, I might as well choose the kind of hard that aligns with care. In moments of tension—stay home or go out, speak Spanish or stay quiet, write or rest, bake another loaf or call it a day—my north star has been connection and care—for others and for my body.
I’m not perfect at either. But even in my imperfection, I can keep reaching for kindness. For respect. For something soft and anchoring. I want to be a source of peace. A lightweight hammock that nestles you just right, reorienting you like a world-ranked chiropractor, back to yourself.
I want this for myself first. And as I hoist myself up another rung, I share what I learn with you. And as you do the same, the goodness multiplies.
It’s a synchronistic dance we do.
Maybe I used to see Spanish as a hobby. But what if it could earn me something more? That thought adds pressure, and I instinctively rebel. But after dunking ten more tortilla chips into Dave’s latest homemade salsa, I’m thinking differently.
I’ll keep training. I’ll take the advice of my Costa Rican friend who laughed at our gringo struggle to roll our r’s. I just watched a tutorial: tongue in a “th” position, pull back slightly, blow air. She says it won’t happen in a day—or a week. But it’s possible. That’s enough for now.
The distorted rap drifting through the trees had me annoyed at first. It’s 9:20 p.m., and some of us have kids in bed. I wanted to enjoy a soft back patio evening, not get someone else’s basslines crammed down my ear.
But then I changed my tune. Maybe whoever’s over there is having the time of their life—working on a propped-up hood classic with a buddy they haven’t seen since the second grade. Laughing, dancing, catching up. Probably both bachelors. No Redneck wife would co-sign that volume this late. Unless she’s in Daytona or Vegas for a girls’ weekend.
Anyway, the salsa is ridiculously good.
Dang, it’s tempting to sleep out here. Seventy-one degrees outside is the same as inside. Oh, right—I already did sleep outside today. On the hammock. I was writing a progress note, closed my laptop lid, leaned my head back, and let the z’s take over. It could’ve been fifteen minutes or an hour. Either way, I haven’t got a clue.
Maybe that’s what I do lately—find my footing by stepping into the moment. Into the flavor, the rhythm, the language, the laughter. Whatever pulls me back to being human.
Turns out, being a little off-kilter might be the most honest way to rest.
Take care. Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 