Clouds

I’m writing this from the sky.
Somewhere between what was and what comes next. I boarded the plane, found my seat, and now I’m watching the clouds blur into something I can’t quite name.
And still, somehow, I feel stuck.
Suspended. Like I am paused in a doorway.
One foot in the past and the other not sure where it is going to land.

Over the last few weeks, I said a lot of goodbyes. Some short. Some silent. Some that felt like the kind of goodbye you don’t come back from. And somewhere in nearly every one, the same question found its way to the surface.

“Will I ever see you again?”

And the truth is, I do not know.

I wanted to have a better answer. I wanted to say yes. I wanted to say of course. I wanted to say absolutely. I wanted to make promises, even if I was not sure I could keep them. But I have learned that sometimes the kindest thing you can do is tell the truth, even when it breaks your own heart.

And the truth is that life is not a straight road. It loops and turns and takes you places you never expected. And I do not know where this chapter is going to lead me. I would love to come back to Virginia. To the porches and backroads. To the trails and the tucked-away corners. To the places that held me when I did not have words. To the people who stood by me through all of it.
To the mountain views, yes, but also the little things. The streetlights and sidewalk conversations. The small-town moments and quiet kind of love I found scattered across this state.

But I have also left something behind. Something heavy. And not all returns are healing. Some just reopen wounds that have not scarred over yet.

There is a version of this story where I do come back. Where I visit in the fall or the spring. Where we sit on couches or church steps or trailheads and pick up right where we left off. Where the leaves still change.
Where the air still smells like woodsmoke and memory. I hope that version exists. I hope I get to live it.

But if I do not, please know this.

I loved this place.
I loved these people.
I loved this chapter of my life, even when it broke me.

And I will carry it with me.
All of it.
The memories.
The quiet hellos.
The brave goodbyes.
The moments I was seen and the ones I never found words for.
The laughter I will replay. The silences that taught me how to stay.

Virginia will keep breathing without me. That is how it works. The wind will keep moving. The leaves will keep falling. The sun will keep setting over the ridges and rooftops. Over the porches and roads and places I may never stand again.

But I hope you remember I was here.
I hope you know you mattered.
I hope we find our way back to each other in some season or some sky.

For now, I am flying.

And part of me is still there. Curled up on Megan’s couch. Watching the leaves dance. Wondering if maybe, just maybe, this is not an ending. Just a pause.

I know she’s beautiful.
I know.

The way she rises over the trees, soft and gold like something out of a story. The way people talk about her like she’s this gentle, steady presence. Like she’s comforting. Like she belongs in poems and lullabies and quiet prayers.

And maybe she does.

But sometimes, I hate her.

I do astrophotography. And I love the stars, really love them. Not in a casual, “oh that’s pretty” kind of way, but in the kind of way that keeps you breathing when everything else feels too heavy. In the way where the night sky becomes a place to rest. A place where you don’t have to smile, don’t have to speak, don’t have to be okay. You just look up and remember that you’re still here.

And I wait for those nights. I wait for clear skies like some people wait for answers. I watch the forecast. I watch the clouds. I stand outside barefoot, camera in hand, hoping this will be the night the stars show up for me.

But if the moon is full, it’s over before it starts.

Her light spills everywhere. It’s too loud, too much. It drowns out the stars like they never mattered. Like they were never even there.

And I hate that feeling.
Knowing they’re out there, just hidden.
Like something I love is being kept from me.

I’ve tried to work around her. I’ve adjusted settings. Changed angles. I’ve tried to make peace with it. But the truth is, she ruins it. She takes what I came for and washes it away. And it’s not even her fault. She’s just doing what she does. Reflecting. Glowing. Showing up.

But it still feels personal.

Because I came out here for quiet. For wonder. For that ache that feels a little bit like hope. And instead I get this brightness that won’t let me in. And maybe it’s just a sky problem. Maybe it’s just photography.

But it feels like more than that.

It feels like every time I try to show up for something—something small, something sacred—it gets overshadowed. Like I get overshadowed. Like I’m always chasing the thing I love most, and something bigger, louder, brighter comes and takes up all the space.

I know it’s not fair to blame the moon.
But sometimes I do anyway.

And I know people would tell me to see her beauty too. To love the glow. To take pictures of her instead. But that’s not what my heart came looking for. My heart came looking for stars. For the hush. For that quiet kind of magic that reminds me I’m not alone.

And some nights, the moon makes me feel lonelier than anything.

But still, I keep going out.

Even when I know she’s there. Even when I know I won’t get the photo I want. I still step outside, still look up, still try. Because maybe there’s love in the trying. Maybe there’s something sacred in standing beneath a sky that doesn’t bend for you and loving it anyway.

Maybe one day I’ll figure out how to hold both.
The moonlight and the missing.
The soft and the sharp.
The ache and the beauty.

But for now, me and the moon?
We’re not speaking.

And honestly, I think that’s okay.

I’ll wait for the dark.
I always do.
The stars are worth it.

The Stars Take Note

Will I Ever See You Again?

Me and the Moon (We’re Not on Speaking Terms)