Pitch a tent.

In my early 20s, a girl named Elizabeth shattered my heart. I was too green to handle that kind of thing, so I did what felt wildly logical at the time: I pitched a tent in my parents’ backyard and stayed there for a week. Why? No clue. But oddly enough, it worked.

Flash forward 30 years, and recent events have dragged that dusty memory out of hiding. If I had the means and the wherewithal now, I can’t say I wouldn’t do it again. Does that make me immature for a guy knocking on AARP’s door? Maybe. But honestly, I think I’m just searching for something to patch me up the way that old, musty Coleman tent once did.

Writing helps. Work keeps me grounded. My kids are my heart, but they’ve got these piercing questions I haven’t even begun to answer, so their love — while a lifeline — isn’t exactly a salve.

What was it about that backyard tent that healed me? Was it the quiet, forcing me to tune into the storm in my own head? Maybe. Or was it just an escape, a soft cocoon that let me breathe between waves of pain? Could be.

Truth is, it wasn’t the tent — it was the avoidance. I zipped myself away from reality, hit pause on the heartache, and unzipped to a world that felt momentarily lighter. But that pattern of avoidance? Oh, I carried it with me. Every time life got heavy, I pitched a metaphorical tent and waited out the storm. Did that contribute to the end of my marriage? Let’s just say it didn’t do me any favors.

Now, I’ve got solitude — loads of it. Too much, honestly. Do I miss the chaotic rhythms of married life? Yeah, sometimes. But the emotional emptiness near the end? Not even a little.

This upcoming year feels like a turning point. Avoidance is so 2024. Pitching tents? Pure 1993. Maybe it’s time to upgrade to emotional glamping — find the balance between running and reckoning. Who knows, maybe a little yurt action is what I need.