For those who never stopped searching—for meaning, for love, for home.
And for my children—may you always know that peace lives within you.
The Tent, the Oil, and the First Time I Lied to Myself
I was eighteen and wanted to be someone.
Not rich. Not famous. Just seen.
That summer, I joined a church youth group—not as a teen, but as an adult leader. I was barely legal, but I could backpack, ski, and play guitar around a campfire. That made me useful. So I led the trips. I loaded the vans. I stayed up late making cocoa for kids who couldn’t sleep in tents.
The parents came too. Some of them, anyway. And there was one mom in particular.
Older. Gorgeous. Married.
She had this spark behind her eyes like she was always one comment away from crossing the line.
That weekend, we hiked into the Sierra Nevada mountains—me, a few other leaders, and a bunch of rowdy kids trying to out-hike each other. We set up tents near a lake, ate dehydrated chili, and watched the sun melt into granite peaks.
Late that night, after the others had zipped up their sleeping bags and the stars turned sharp, I heard her voice behind me.
“You want to sleep in mine tonight?”
Like she was offering a spare toothbrush.
I paused. Not for long.
“Sure,” I said. Like it was nothing.
Inside the tent, she unzipped a side pocket and pulled out a small bottle of massage oil.
“My shoulders are killing me,” she said. “Would you mind?”
I didn’t say a word.
I started with her back.
The skin warm, the scent of lavender rising between us. She unhooked her bra with one hand like she’d done it a thousand times and, my God, she was a woman to behold. I worked the oil into her spine, down to her hips, and over her thighs. She let out a low sigh—almost a purr—and then rolled over.
Nothing else happened.
We didn’t have sex. We didn’t kiss.
But something passed between us that night, and it stayed with me for years. Well, decades.
That moment—her body beneath my hands, the tent zipped tight against the world, her breath evening out as she drifted to sleep—I lay there next to her, completely still, eyes wide open, my heart pounding like I’d just run from something.
That was the night I learned the difference between doing something wrong and wanting to do something wrong.
And later, I learned something even harder:
People lie. About what they want. About what they don’t. About who they are and what they’re afraid to lose. And when you’re young, you assume sincerity because you don’t know better yet.
The next morning, nothing was said.
She poured me coffee. I pretended I hadn’t just rewritten the definition of intimacy in my head.
And that’s how it started—this thing I would do for years: pretend I was fine. Pretend it didn’t matter. Pretend I was okay with being wanted, but not known.
I wasn’t fine.
It did matter.
And I wasn’t okay.
But I got really good at lying to myself.
Not because I liked the lie— But because I was afraid of what people would think if they ever saw the real me.
The authentic self I hadn’t yet figured out how to be.
I wore a version of myself like armor—funny, capable, charming. But underneath, I kept wondering: If they really knew me… would they stay?
I thought I was the only one who felt that way.
But the older I get, the more I realize—we’re all carrying some version of that fear.
There’s a strange kind of grief that comes when you realize adulthood isn’t freedom—it’s debt, emotional and otherwise.
I thought growing up would set me free. Instead, it strapped me down.
A house meant taxes. A relationship meant restraint. A new car meant insurance and responsibility.
Every dream came with a fine print I didn’t read.
I thought I was gaining independence.
But sometimes, growing up feels like signing a contract with consequences you didn’t fully understand.
It would take me years to learn that real freedom wasn’t something I could buy, earn, or sleep with.
Real freedom came later—when I stopped performing and started walking toward the man I actually was becoming.
The authentic self doesn’t shout.
He doesn’t impress.
He just shows up.
And hopes to be met with something other than judgment.
When I stopped chasing the feeling of being wanted and started wondering what it meant to be truly known, that’s when everything began to shift.
Not all at once. Not loudly.
But I felt it.
When you lie to yourself long enough, it starts to feel like truth.
But your body always remembers what you’ve tried to forget.
