Back in spring, when the days were still soft and I hadn’t yet unraveled under the weight of this place, I made a bingo board.
Twenty-five little boxes.
Each one a whisper: maybe this year will be different.
A scavenger hunt for joy. A quiet dare to hope.

It was a way to take control.
To remind myself that I am allowed to want things.
That life could be more than work and duty and holding everything together while no one notices I’m cracking.

I didn’t say it out loud, but I hoped this board might save me.
Or at least anchor me.
Give me something to reach for when everything else feels too heavy.

And at first, I tried.

Because here we are, deep into summer, and I’ve done a few things.
I got a new coffee. I climbed Cape Henry Lighthouse.
I started a blog. I backed the truck up to high ropes more times than I ever wanted.
I have plans to visit Belties Café.
I’ve hugged Megan. We’ve talked tattoos.
I’ve made frozen bubbles. I’ve watched the sun kiss the water goodnight.

But most of the board will stay blank.

Not because I didn’t want those things. I wanted them so badly.
“Design a greeting card.” “Go to a park.” “Fancy night out.” “Paint with someone.”
Tiny moments. Soft corners of a summer I thought I might finally get to enjoy.
But the truth is, when you are this tired—this stretched thin—
Even joy starts to feel like another thing you don’t have the strength for.

Life doesn’t care that I wrote it down.
Doesn’t care that I carved out space for whimsy and wonder.
Doesn’t care that I needed this.
It just kept asking more of me.
More work. More patience. More silence.
Less time. Less rest. Less me.

So no—I won’t fill the board.
I probably won’t even come close.

But maybe what I did do still matters.
Maybe the real squares were the ones I never wrote down:
“Didn’t quit when everything felt pointless.”
“Laughed when it hurt.”
“Got out of bed anyway.”
“Carried the weight so no one else had to.”
“Let myself hope, even if it broke my heart.”

I am so far past the point of needing this summer to be impressive.
I just needed it to be kind.
And maybe it wasn’t.
But I was.

To others. To the job. To the version of me that still showed up.
And I’m learning to count that, too.

So no, I didn’t win.
But I tried.
And I survived.
And that has to be worth something.