June caught me off guard.
Not because anything bad happened.
Quite the opposite.
Business was growing.
I went on my first trip since my divorce. Several of them.
I had my first ADV moto experience.
I rediscovered a sense of magic that I hadn’t experienced since I was 10 years old while riding old logging roads through Oregon that I never even knew existed.
I was writing again.
Training consistently.
Building two businesses that finally feel like they're pointing in the same direction.
Objectively, life was moving forward.
And yet. . .
Loneliness quietly found its way into the room.
It wasn't loud.
It didn't announce its arrival.
It simply settled in beside me during long drives and hotel stays.
It found me on the quiet evenings.
This is the longest period of my adult life I've ever spent alone.
No partner. No human touch. No one waiting for you.
I wasn't prepared for that.
For seven years, travel meant LC.
In that time, we were far from homebodies.
We collected places.
We'd wander unfamiliar towns looking for a local bar where we’d order drinks and somehow convince ourselves we'd experienced the town because we'd had cocktails there.
On a recent road trip, I walked into a hotel room alone and, for just a moment, every memory came rushing back.
Not because I wanted my marriage back.
Because my nervous system still remembered what companionship felt like.
Empty hotel rooms have a way of amplifying solitude.
Around the same time, I downloaded a dating app.
Met someone for a few casual dates.
Found myself stopping by a local spot where the smoothie girl and I had developed a playful rapport.
Nothing wrong with any of it.
But there was noise in my head.
Should I start dating again?
Should I put myself out there?
Maybe have a few beers. Maybe reconnect with old friends. Maybe an old flame.
Then, during a Yin Yoga class, the instructor said something almost in passing.
"Trust the season you're in."
The room didn't change.
I did.
I realized I wasn't actually looking for a relationship.
I was looking for relief from loneliness.
Those are not the same thing.
The difference is important.
Loneliness has a way of convincing us that movement equals progress.
Download the app. Send the text. Order another drink.
Find someone.
Do something.
Anything.
But what I’m truly beginning to discover is that not every desire deserves immediate action.
Sometimes desire is simply information.
It tells us what's still alive inside us.
It doesn't tell us what to do next.
When I got honest with myself, another realization surfaced.
I'm in a building season.
Not a waiting season.
Not a punishment season.
Not a season where life is on hold until everything is perfect.
A building season.
I'm building a business.
Building discipline.
Building a life that reflects who I actually am instead of who I had accidentally become.
That's not asceticism.
I'm still riding motorcycles down forgotten highways.
Still hiking.
Still training.
Still discovering new corners of Oregon.
But I'm trying to become more intentional about what I add to my life.
Because I don't want to build a relationship that compensates for instability.
I want to build a life that can sustain one.
That's a very different goal.
For years I thought starting over meant hitting reset.
Now I think that's the wrong metaphor.
Life isn't asking us to reset.
It's asking us to resume.
Resume becoming the man you stopped becoming.
Resume building what you abandoned.
Resume honoring the parts of yourself that got buried beneath obligation. . . distraction. . . fear.
A reset erases the past.
A resume integrates it.
Maybe that's why the phrase hit me so deeply.
Trust the season you're in.
Not because this season is comfortable.
Not because it's easy.
Because one day, if you're paying attention, you'll realize it wasn't the obstacle to your life.
It was your life.
And you'll be grateful you didn't rush through it.
