Dine's Ethos

I miss home so much.

It hit me hard a week ago. One of those quiet, heavy kinds of sadness that just sits with you. I know I should probably stay off social media. It makes it worse, but there’s also this pull to keep looking. To not forget. To stay connected, even if it hurts.

What a strange privilege it is, to miss something this deeply.

I don’t remember feeling this way when I started grad school, or even when I started working my first job after graduation. Back then, I didn’t carry this kind of ache. I miss that version of myself sometimes… the one who didn’t know what she was missing. Or who had forgotten. At that point, it had been four years since I came back to Utah. Forgetting is a kind of peace. My stress was simple. It was just work.

Now it’s different. I’ve known what it feels like to care deeply about a place, about people, about the kind of work that makes you feel alive. And once I felt that, everything else feels… flatter. Manageable, yes. But not quite enough.

Lately I feel like a buoy in the ocean. Just floating, letting the waves take me wherever they want. I don’t know if that’s surrender or survival. My therapist said maybe that’s what I need right now. I’m trying to believe that. But I struggle with it. I don’t know how to process all of this. I don’t know how to sit with it without wanting to fix it, or fast-forward through it. Maybe time is the only thing that helps. Maybe this is just a season I have to move through.

I keep telling myself: there’s still so much life ahead. There has to be.

She asked me when I feel most at peace. I told her: when I’m traveling. I don’t know if that’s clarity or avoidance. Maybe both.

Because being here comes with memories I didn’t ask to revisit. Coming back and finding out I was sick. That week in the hospital. Learning how to live on dialysis. Doing exchanges alone in my room. Recovering from surgery in the living room because I couldn’t manage the stairs. Needing help with things that used to be second nature. The constant presence of medical supplies. The pills.

Now that it’s getting warmer, it feels like I’m right back there again. It’s been almost a year since I came back. A year since I had to pack a suitcase and leave everything else I owned.

My phone showed me photos from last summer. I don’t think I realized, until now, how deeply I was hurting (Hi delusional). How much of that time I spent alone, just trying to get through the days. It reminded me of how much I slept because being awake felt like too much. I slept so much my parents noticed. And God, did I cry. Alone. So many times. It didn’t feel like something I could share. Not because people wouldn’t care, but because it wouldn’t change anything.

I just remember being so profoundly sad. Honestly, heartbroken. It nearly felt like my spirit had shattered. She asked if I’ve felt any anger and I don’t think I’ve felt anger about any of it. Just… deep, quiet anguish. Like something inside me cracked, and I’m still learning how to live with the pieces.

Maybe that’s why I avoided therapy for a while. I hadn’t seen my therapist for months and then a few weeks ago she texted me, hence, me meeting with her again. Talking about it brings everything back to the surface. And I’ve gotten good at keeping it just beneath.

People tell me all the time that I’m positive, that I handle things well. And I do try. It’s intentional. All the reminders we tell ourselves—you are not your circumstances, this is temporary—I hold onto those. Some days they help. Some days they feel like lines I repeat because I don’t know what else to do.

Last week, the homesickness was overwhelming. It was all I could think about. And there’s this other fear, too… that the longer I stay here, the easier it becomes to stay. That I’ll slowly let go of the idea of going back.

I feel restless again. My appetite is back. I’m eating more, gaining a little weight. Physically, I think I’m doing better. But mentally, I feel under-stimulated. Bored in a way that’s hard to explain.

I started volunteering again on Saturdays. It helped at first. Now it doesn’t fill me the same way.

My cup feels… empty.

So I keep asking myself what comes next. Pottery classes? Going back to school? Maybe a MAcc, especially with how much tax work keeps coming my way. I don’t know. I just know I want to feel engaged again. I want to feel like I’m doing something.

How do people fill their cups?

Even with everything that’s happened, there’s still so much life left to shape. That’s exciting. And exhausting.

But if I’m being honest, out of everything, I’m most looking forward to something simple. The ocean.

I can’t wait for the day I can swim again.