True North Thoughts

Tag: mental-health

  • My Long Way Back

    When I look back on the last handful of years, I realize that I have caused some hurt, and I have been hurt too. Life has a way of doing that to people. Sometimes it’s not dramatic moments that change everything, but a slow series of decisions, circumstances, and lessons that shape where you end up.

    You might be sitting there reading this saying, “Oh?” wondering where this is going. Truth is, the last three or four years of my life have been a long road—one that didn’t look anything like the one I thought I was walking when it started.

    A few years ago I made the move to New York. At the time it felt like the right move, the necessary move. I wanted to be closer to my kids. Anyone who has children understands that pull. You’d do just about anything to be part of their lives, to not miss the small things—the moments that make up a childhood. So I went. I tried to build something there.

    For a while, it felt like maybe it would work.

    But life doesn’t always cooperate with the plans we make for it. Things got harder. The stability I thought I had started slipping away. Eventually it reached the point where I lost my apartment. There’s a certain kind of humility that comes with realizing the life you tried to build somewhere isn’t going to hold together the way you hoped it would.

    So I came back.

    Coming back home—back to living with family—wasn’t exactly the victory lap anyone dreams about. It felt more like a reset I never expected to need. Pride takes a hit in moments like that. You start replaying decisions in your head, wondering where the fork in the road really was.

    But time has a way of giving you perspective.

    Those years weren’t just about loss or mistakes. They were about learning things the hard way. Learning that sometimes you can do your best and still fall short. Learning that relationships—especially with your kids—aren’t built in one big moment but in a thousand small ones over time. Learning that people you care about can be hurt by your choices, even if the intentions behind them were good.

    And also learning that sometimes people hurt you too.

    The last few years have forced me to slow down and look at myself in ways I probably avoided before. To take responsibility for the parts that were mine. To understand that growth doesn’t usually come from the seasons when everything is working—it comes from the seasons where everything feels like it’s falling apart.

    But here’s the thing about long roads: eventually they turn.

    The winter always feels like it’s going to last forever while you’re standing in the middle of it. But eventually the snow melts, the air warms up, and you realize you’ve made it to the other side of something.

    My story the last few years hasn’t been perfect. There are chapters I wish had gone differently. There are people I wish I had handled things better with. There are moments I’d go back and redo if life handed out do-overs.

    But the road back—the long way back—has taught me something important.

    You’re never really finished becoming the person you’re meant to be.

    And sometimes the hardest roads we walk are the ones that bring us back to where we needed to be all along.

  • Finding Hope in Winter’s Grip

    The days draw longer now. I find myself restlessly sitting around, waiting for winter to loosen its grip and for spring and summer to return. I want to get back to my true happy place—the campground, the outdoors, the easy kind of time that comes with friends and family when the air feels alive again.

    I’ve never really been someone who dwells on the seasons. I’ve always been able to shrug off the cold, push through the darker days, keep it moving. But for some reason this year, it’s getting to me more than I expected. Maybe it’s not just the weather. Maybe it’s what the end of last year dragged in with it, and what the beginning of this one asked me to carry.

    The end of the year and the start of this one were mentally troubling for me. Not in a dramatic, “everything fell apart overnight” kind of way—but in that slow, quiet way that wears you down. The kind that shows up in your patience, your sleep, your motivation. The kind you don’t notice until you’re already standing in it.

    And then there was the friendship I lost.

    That’s the part that still messes with me, if I’m being honest. Because it wasn’t a clean break. It wasn’t a single moment where you can point and say, That’s where it ended. It was slow. Gradual. A fade I didn’t see coming because I was blinded by loyalty, by history, by hope—by the version of that friendship I kept trying to believe was still real. I didn’t recognize it was ending while it was happening. I didn’t want to.

    There’s a specific kind of grief that comes with that. Not just losing someone, but realizing you were fighting for something that had already started slipping away. Realizing the effort wasn’t mutual anymore. Realizing you were the one filling in the silence, making excuses, adjusting your expectations, carrying the weight so it didn’t collapse.

    And now, here I am—watching the days stretch out again, waiting for warmth to come back, trying to convince myself that I’m not stuck, just in between.

    That’s what winter feels like to me right now: in between.

    In between who I was last summer and who I’m becoming now. In between the version of life that felt light and the version that feels heavier than it should. In between letting go and learning how to move forward without needing closure I may never get.

    I don’t think I’m asking for a perfect season. I’m not asking for everything to be easy. I just want to feel like myself again. I want the mornings that start with purpose and end with a tired kind of peace. I want campfires, laughter, open air, and the kind of quiet that heals instead of the kind that echoes.

    Maybe that’s why it’s hitting harder this year—because I’m not just waiting for spring.

    I’m waiting to feel alive again.

    And until then, I’m trying to be honest about where I’m at, without letting it turn into a place I live permanently. I’m trying to remember that some things end not because you failed, but because you outgrew what you were settling for. I’m trying to trust that what’s meant for me won’t require me to chase it, beg for it, or shrink myself to keep it.

    If you’ve been feeling that winter heaviness too—like you’re restless, like you’re stuck in neutral, like you’re missing a version of yourself you can’t quite reach right now—you’re not alone.

    Tell me in the comments: what are you counting down to this year? What’s your “campground” season—your place, your people, your reset?