Life

Barks Are Loud, but Snores Tell the Story: A Sitter’s Guide to Canine Melodies

~ Natal Galvan ~ Leave a comment

Don’t get me wrong, I know my “woofs.” As a dog sitter, I’ve learned that a bark is a language of its own. I can hear the difference between the “there’s a squirrel” yip and the “hey, I’m hungry” huff. But if you really want to know a dog’s soul? You have to listen to them sleep.
While barks have character, snores have personality. In my time pet sitting, I’ve found that snores are the ultimate “tell.” They are unique, often hilarious, and frequently make zero sense compared to the dog they’re coming from. It’s a symphony of sleep that I’ve come to recognize better than any wagging tail or pointed ear.

The Great “Size vs. Sound” Mystery

The most entertaining part of my job is the “Identity Crisis” snore. You’d think a dog’s sleep sounds would match their stature, but in the canine world, the physics of sound work a little differently.

  • The Delicate Giant: I’ve looked after massive, “ferocious” barkers, dogs with a deep, chest-rattling boom that sounds like a thunderstorm. Yet, when they hit the pillow? They emit the daintiest, softest little skips of breath you’ve ever heard. It’s like a tiny bird trapped in a bear’s body.
  • The Pocket-Sized Powerhouse: Then there are the tiny ones. I once sat for a dog no bigger than a loaf of bread who managed to out-snore my significant other. It wasn’t just a sound; it was a rhythmic, house-shaking roar that defied the laws of biology.

The “Snoreshelf”: A Field Guide

Every dog brings their own unique “instrument” to the sleep orchestra. Here are the most common ones I’ve encountered:

| Snore Type | The Sound | The Vibe |
| The Flutter-Leaf | A soft, rhythmic thrum-thrum of the lips. | Pure, unadulterated peace. |


| The Old Man Humbug | A series of low, grumbly sighs and nasal whistles. | Sounds like they’re complaining about the price of kibble in their dreams. |


| The Steam Engine | A heavy, chugging inhale followed by a dramatic “pfffft!” | Usually belongs to a dog who spent the day doing “big jobs” (like napping). |


| The Deflating Balloon | A high-pitched squeal that slowly fades out. | Hilarious, confusing, and totally endearing. |


Why the Noise Makes My Heart Melt

There is something so deeply rewarding about a dog snoring in your care. A bark is often a demand or a warning, but a snore? A snore is a compliment.
It means they’ve reached that level of deep, heavy REM sleep where they feel completely safe. When the house is quiet and I hear those bizarre, mismatched, and sometimes confusing nasal melodies, I can’t help but smile. They aren’t just sleeping; they’re telling me they’re home.
Barks might tell me what they want, but the snores tell me they’re happy.

The Bell, The Door, The Manager Who Wasn’t Ready

~ Natal Galvan ~ Leave a comment

When I dropped Ishka off at the groomer’s today, I found myself asking a very simple question: Why do some people wake up and choose unpleasantries? Like… is it a hobby? A lifestyle? A calling?

Our appointment was at 8 a.m. 

I arrived at 8:04, which, in dog‑parent time, is basically early. I’m juggling my purse, my keys, and a very excited Ishka who is doing full‑body wiggles in my arms. I sprint up to the automatic doors… and they don’t open. Not even a pity shudder. Just a cold, silent “no.”

This is confusing because they also book 7 a.m. appointments, which implies that human beings should be inside. I stand there for a solid five minutes, watching the cleaning crew zip past me like I’m a ghost they’ve sworn not to acknowledge. They’re doing Olympic‑level eye‑avoidance. I could’ve been holding a sign that said “HELP ME” and they still would’ve stared at the floor like it owed them money.

Fine. I go back to my car and call.

They answer immediately.

“Hi, I have an 8 a.m. appointment but the doors won’t open.”

“That’s because we’re closed. I’ll be right out.” 

Click.

No goodbye. No “hold on one moment.” Just a dial tone and the faint sound of my patience evaporating.

I look at Ishka, who has finally settled into a cozy little loaf in my arms, and apologize for the emotional whiplash she’s about to experience.

I walk back to the door, dodging puddles and salt piles like I’m navigating a booby‑trapped temple. The manager unlocks the door, looks at me, and says:

“Didn’t ring the bell?”

I blink. “Hi, good morning… I’m sorry… what?”

She gestures toward the world’s tiniest button: a microscopic dot all the way to the far right of the doors. Beneath it is an equally microscopic sign that says, Ring Bell During Off Business Hours. You would need a magnifying glass, a flashlight, and a prayer to notice it.

“You’re supposed to ring the bell,” she repeats, smiling at the neighboring business like she’s just solved world hunger.

“Well, no one mentioned a bell when I booked,” I say, already over this conversation. “But now I know for next time.”

I walk past her into the groomer’s office, where I’m greeted by a young woman who looks like she woke up ten minutes ago and lost the battle with her alarm clock. Honestly, same,  but I’m not the one holding scissors near someone’s dog.

Here’s my issue: 

If you’re going to schedule grooming appointments before business hours, maybe, just maybe, tell people about the secret doorbell. Send a text. Leave a voicemail. Train a carrier pigeon. Anything.

And if you’re the manager opening the store, maybe keep an eye on the door instead of assuming customers will magically intuit the existence of a button the size of a Tic Tac.

It blows my mind how often customers are treated like we’re inconveniencing a business by… going to the business. And spending money. Wild concept.

And don’t even get me started on mobile groomers. I’ve left voicemails. I’ve sent emails. I’ve practically begged. Not a single call back. At this point, I’m convinced mobile groomers are a myth, like unicorns, or people who enjoy folding fitted sheets.

What happened to customer service? When did sarcasm become the default setting? Why is kindness treated like an optional add‑on? The manager’s tone this morning was unnecessary, unhelpful, and honestly exhausting. Being rude takes effort. Being kind is free. And yet here we are.

Anyway, Ishka got her bath. I got a story. And next time, I’ll be ringing that microscopic bell like I’m summoning a butler in a Victorian mansion.

Who Are They Without Us? A Playful Rant About a Not‑So‑Playful Problem

~ Natal Galvan ~ Leave a comment

Let’s be honest: it’s a true shame that we, as a society, have let the ruling class, the infamous 1%, treat us like background characters in the story of their own wealth. And the wildest part? We’ve practically handed them the pen. If we hadn’t let them divide and conquer us over the last several years, imagine what we could do together. Imagine the power we’d have if we remembered the one thing we all share: we are the consumers who keep the entire machine running.
And yet… look at what we’re getting in return.

The Quality Is Down, the Prices Are Up, and Somehow We’re Still Saying “Thank You”

Consumers across the country are noticing something is off, and it’s not just you being picky. According to a 2025 Axios/Harris Poll, 69% of Americans say the quality of everyday products has noticeably declined, even as prices continue to skyrocket. Businesses are passing along higher costs, padding profits, and delivering worse products. A magical trifecta, if you’re a CEO.
And customer service? Don’t get me started. The American Customer Satisfaction Index reports that customer satisfaction has dipped again, reaching near‑record lows. Companies love to blame “rising customer expectations,” but the data shows expectations haven’t changed much at all. Translation: it’s not us. It’s them.

Why Are We So Comfortable With Mediocrity?

We complain, oh, we complain. We leave the annoyed Google review. We send the “this wasn’t what I ordered” email. And what do we get?
A coupon.
A refund.
A “We’re so sorry, please give us another chance!”
Cute. But does anything actually change? Do they improve the product? Do they train their staff? Do they stop cutting corners?
No. No, because they don’t have to.
For every one of us who speaks up, three more stay silent and just pay the bill. Corporations know this. They bank on it, literally!

We’re Funding the Very System We Complain About

I’m tired of watching big corporations dictate what we buy, how much we spend, and what level of quality we’re “allowed” to expect. We deserve better than this cycle of low‑quality goods, high prices, and “customer service” that feels like a hostage negotiation.
And here’s the kicker: consumer spending is still strong, even though people feel worse about the economy and more frustrated with rising prices. Companies know we’ll keep buying, even when we’re unhappy. That’s why nothing changes.


So… What If We Actually Did Something About It?
What if we stopped playing along?
What if we all, yes, all, decided to stop buying from companies that treat us like walking wallets? What if we went on a coordinated consumer strike? What if we remembered that they are nothing without us?
Because that’s the truth.
Strip away our purchases, our subscriptions, our clicks, our loyalty, and what’s left?
A corporation with no customers.
A brand with no audience.
A billionaire with no revenue stream.
They need us far more than we need them.
We Deserve Better. And We Know It.
We deserve products that aren’t falling apart.
We deserve customer service that doesn’t feel like a chore.
We deserve prices that don’t require a small loan.
We deserve corporations that respect the people who keep them alive.
And the moment we decide to act collectively, really act, they’ll have no choice but to change.
So, the real question isn’t whether they’ll listen.
It’s whether we’re finally ready to stop whispering our frustration and start using the power we’ve had all along.
Who are they without us?
Exactly.

Phoenix’s Midnight Walks: Caring for Senior Dogs with Grace and Compassion

~ Natal Galvan ~ Leave a comment

Phoenix, my most recently adopted senior pitbull, has always carried herself with quiet strength. Once the queen of the couch and the guardian of the front door, she now spends her nights pacing, her paws tracing invisible circles in the dark. Her eyesight has dimmed to shadows, her hearing fades like whispers in the wind, and arthritis has made her hind legs stiff and sore.

Watching her navigate this stage of life is both heartbreaking and humbling. There are moments when I see her confusion, when she forgets where she is or what she was searching for. And yet, there’s resilience in her steps, a reminder that even in frailty, there is dignity.

I’ve walked this road before with Melita, my fur baby of 19 years, whose final days taught me the bittersweet truth of loving deeply: sometimes, love means letting go. Choosing the day to say goodbye was one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever made. With Phoenix, I carry those lessons forward, balancing care, comfort, and compassion.

Caring for a senior dog like Phoenix means creating an environment that feels safe and familiar. Keeping furniture in consistent places and reducing clutter can help ease confusion when dementia causes disorientation. Establishing gentle routines—regular feeding, walks, and rest—provides comfort and predictability, while small adjustments like soft lighting or calming sounds at night can soothe anxiety during pacing spells. Finally, supporting mobility with ramps, orthopedic bedding, and non-slip rugs, alongside veterinary guidance for pain management, ensures your dog can move with dignity and as little discomfort as possible.

•           Create a safe, predictable environment

•           Maintain gentle routines with calming nighttime support

•           Use mobility aids and consult your vet for comfort

Advice for Owners: Caring for Yourself Too

The emotional toll of caring for a senior dog is real, and it’s important to honor your own well-being alongside theirs. Allow yourself to grieve the small changes as they come, recognizing that each shift in ability is a loss worth acknowledging. Seek out community, whether through friends, support groups, or fellow pet owners, because sharing stories lightens the burden and reminds you that you’re not alone. Most importantly, practice self-compassion: sleepless nights and tough decisions are part of the journey, and remembering that you’re doing your best helps you carry the weight with grace.

•           Allow yourself to grieve changes as they happen

•           Seek community and connection with others who understand

•           Practice self-compassion and remind yourself you’re doing your best

Phoenix’s midnight walks remind me that aging is not a loss of spirit, it’s a transformation. Our senior dogs teach us patience, resilience, and the depth of unconditional love. Caring for them in their twilight years is both a challenge and a gift, one that shapes us as much as it comforts them.

And yet, this journey is not only about them, it’s about us, too. It asks us to stretch our hearts wider, to sit with grief even as we celebrate joy, and to recognize that love is not diminished by endings. In fact, it is magnified. Every sleepless night, every gentle touch, every whispered reassurance becomes part of a legacy of devotion that will outlast their physical presence.

So if you find yourself walking alongside a senior dog, know that you are not alone. There is a community of caretakers who understand the bittersweet beauty of this path. Hold onto the small moments, the wag of a tail, the warmth of fur against your hand, the quiet companionship in the dark. These are the treasures that remain long after the pacing stops, long after the goodbyes are spoken.

Phoenix, like Melita before her, reminds me that love is not measured in years but in presence. And in the end, the greatest gift we can give our dogs, and ourselves, is to honor their journey with compassion, courage, and the knowledge that every step together matters.

Expertise Unheard: Navigating Partnership and Disillusionment

~ Natal Galvan

Choosing to live childfree was a conscious decision for me, one rooted in the desire to navigate life on my own terms. I simply didn’t desire the obligation of nurturing and shaping a young life. My preference was, and continues to be, experiencing life on my own terms. However, what I hadn’t anticipated was that inviting a partner into my life could sometimes echo the challenges of parenthood.

I’ve encountered numerous women with long-term partners or husbands who echo my feelings, indicating it’s a shared experience rather than an aversion to societal duties. It’s as if society has scripted our roles: men jest about choosing the “level of crazy” they can tolerate in women, while women wryly note that all men are akin to children, leaving us to ponder just how much additional “parenting” we’re prepared to extend.

A recent episode with my significant other left me questioning the very essence of our dynamic and if I actually had avoided parenting altogether.

The sting of unheeded counsel is all too familiar which is particularly trying when it comes from a place of professional expertise. With a wealth of knowledge spanning over two decades in my field, I was once the expert he revered, the beacon that guided his career choice. Yet, as time marches on, his ears seem attuned to everyone’s advice but mine.

This pattern reminds me of my own youthful dismissal of my mother’s wisdom, which I once deemed obsolete. Yet, invariably, her insights proved prescient, a lesson I learned through repeated stumbles. Children may outgrow this phase, but adults, like my partner, often remain obstinately resistant.

Witnessing him return home, drained from the day, only to rise embittered and anxious, is disheartening. My attempts to offer proven strategies—real-world solutions that have bolstered similar ventures—are met with indifference. It’s maddening, particularly when his business is still pliable, ripe for innovation.

These moments accumulate, a growing ledger of disillusionment, prompting me to wonder: what role do I truly play here? What is the value of expertise if it remains unheard within one’s own sanctuary? What actual purpose am I serving here?

It’s a quandary that challenges the very core of partnership and mutual growth.

Embracing the Winds of Change: Reflecting on Life’s Decisions

~ Natal Galvan

Life is a tapestry woven with decisions—some impulsive, others calculated, but each thread contributing to the intricate pattern of our existence. My journey has been marked by choices that some might label as erratic or spontaneous. Yet, these moments of decision, whether they led to triumphs or trials, have been the very essence of my learning.

In the quiet corners of our lives, we encounter those pivotal decisions that resonate deeply within us. We sense their rightness, even when the full impact of their wisdom is yet to be felt. It’s in the patient unfolding of time that the seeds of doubt can sprout, tempting us to question our course.

Recently, I found myself at a crossroads, faced with decisions of considerable weight. Guided by the compass of my heart, I sought authenticity and joy. Such significant life choices, however, come with their sacrifices. As the days pass, a sense of loss lingers; life as we knew it—and who we were within it—transforms.

Transition periods are rife with uncertainty, yet it is essential to anchor ourselves in the pursuit of happiness. Time, that gentle sculptor, eventually reveals a new pattern of existence, and the vision we held for ourselves begins to materialize.

Amidst this journey, I experienced a momentary ebb in my spirits. Partly, I could attribute it to the hormonal tempests that visit monthly, leaving emotional turbulence in their wake. But there was also the recognition that I was in a phase of gradual alignment, where life’s puzzle pieces were finding their place, albeit slowly.

How do I navigate these emotional troughs? Initially, I surrender to the distraction of reality TV, allowing my thoughts to drift untethered. By the third day, restlessness sets in, signaling the simmering of creative energy, hinting at an impending burst of inspiration. And when the fifth day dawns, I emerge renewed, ready to embrace the present moment—the ultimate sanctuary from the past’s echoes and the future’s whispers.

In moments of doubt, I’ve learned the importance of sitting with my emotions, for they are the keys to self-discovery. The challenge lies in moving beyond these feelings, not allowing doubt to ensnare us, but instead, using it as a catalyst to uncover the evolving facets of our identity.

I urge that when you find yourself in moments of doubt, allow yourself the time to feel your feelings because it does allow you to figure a lot of yourself out. The key is to move past those moments, not getting lost in the feelings of doubts and allowing yourself to rediscover new parts of yourself that have developed through these times. Give yourself the gift of the present moment and before you know it, those pieces that you were waiting to fall into place, are.

Linwood Country C&$*@

~ Natal Galvan

After a grueling work week, my best friend and I sought an outdoor haven to unwind on our cherished Friday afternoon. We she discovered a charming spot in a nearby town, boasting picturesque outdoor seating and the promise of live music that evening. The venue was a local country club, a place I had visited once before, two years ago, when their outdoor section was just blossoming. Apart from the captivating scenery, there wasn’t much happening then, so I hadn’t returned until now.

Fast forward two years, my best friend and I, eager for a change of scenery and a good catch-up, arrived at the club. Initially, it was serene, with only a handful of golfers dotting the landscape. The bartenders were in a state of calm preparation for the evening. However, as the sun began its descent, the place started filling up. We were probably the youngest patrons there, but we didn’t mind, as we usually prefer the company of an older crowd. It soon became apparent, though, that we had intruded on the territory of the bar’s regulars, who were none too pleased with two random strangers sitting at their bar.

The hostility was almost instantaneous: nudges, pushes, shoves. The first offender was the so-called “owner,” a term he liberally used. Unbeknownst to him, I was aware of his actual status as a silent partner, a term he seemed to misunderstand. His behavior was boorish, treating the bartenders and paying customers with condescension. The air was thick with entitlement, hanging over the crowd like L.A city smog.

As we dealt with the “owner,” I began to notice out of my peripheral a woman began buzzing around me like an irksome mosquito. Suddenly, she was right next to me, her sweaty arm uncomfortably rubbing up against mine, and she started bombarding me with questions, “Who are you? Where you girls from, locals? What are you doing here? Are you leaving soon?” When she realized I wasn’t giving her much attention, she resorted to insults (per what foolish people do when they aren’t getting what they want), loudly proclaiming that the men at the bar weren’t “my type.” I asked her to clarify, and she suggested that the men were too old for me and that I should look elsewhere. Her audacity was cringe-worthy. Not for me but for herself for this sad woman was someone’s something.

You could begin to feel the crowd’s energy began to shift, some siding with her, while a few sympathized with us. Those who felt bad tried to make amends by offering to buy us drinks, which we declined. The husband of the pesky mosquito came over to apologize and then also stated,

“Trust me, if I could divorce her without her taking half of everything, I would have done it a long time ago. She is horrible.”

Our intended relaxing day off had turned into a battle of wills. To add to the ordeal, our quesadilla order, placed an hour and a half earlier, had yet to arrive. The bartender, sensing our discomfort, assured us that our food would be out soon. When it finally arrived, we quickly finished, paid, and left, but not without a lingering feeling of defeat.

I wrote a review, expressing my disappointment with the “owner’s” behavior and the regulars’ unwelcoming attitude. Sure, while customers come with their own set of quirks, can’t say much to that, it’s definitely within bounds to nudge the “owner” about minding his manners around the staff and patrons. If I were the boss and caught a glimpse of an owner acting out, I’d be more than just a little shocked – I’d be ready to teach a masterclass in Business Etiquette 101!

In my review, I vowed we’d be back, not keen on allowing them to treat us as the outsiders. Yet, in the days that followed, I had my doubts. It was a bit of a bummer to imagine those laughing hyenas carrying on with their night as we trudged home, spirits low. For them, it was just a blip on the radar, probably the butt of jokes as their evening rolled on. For us? It was a gloomy cloud that hung around way longer than welcome.

It’s quite the paradox, isn’t it? There we were, a couple of peace-loving souls, just trying to unwind, and yet we found ourselves in a stress-inducing saga. It’s ironic how we all aimed to chill out, but some folks must’ve missed the memo. The instigators likely slept like babies, oblivious to the chaos in their wake.

To them, we were merely obstacles in their quest for an extra squeeze of lemon in their vodka water.

I’ve Only Got Two: Turning the Other Cheek

~ Natal Galvan

When you consistently display a forgiving and forgetful attitude, you unintentionally condition those around you to treat you as they see fit. This behavior reinforces the idea that their actions towards you, whether positive or negative, are acceptable and justified. By constantly turning the other cheek, you essentially signal to the world that it is acceptable to repeatedly mistreat you.

However, there may come a time when you no longer wish to maintain this passive stance. Eventually, you may become tired and decide to take proactive steps to protect yourself. This change in behavior can confuse and upset those who have become used to your constant tolerance. They may find it difficult to understand why you are suddenly showing assertiveness and inflexibility, and why you are no longer as understanding or willing to forgive and forget.

Eventually, you may reach a point where you firmly state that you will no longer tolerate such treatment. While some people may choose to abruptly end the relationship at this point, a more thoughtful approach involves introspection to identify how one’s own actions may have contributed to the development of such attitudes.

In recent years, since returning home, I’ve been forgiving and forgetting a bit too much. When you reach a certain stage in life, you start to evaluate what’s happening around you, and you gradually start to weigh what truly matters to you and what doesn’t. You begin to want to let go of things, conserving your energy for the things that truly matter to you. I stopped arguing and fighting over minor issues. In my view, if it won’t matter in a year, then why argue about it now? So, with this approach, I started to overlook the small lies of omission, or even the larger, more premeditated ones. I constantly put myself in others’ shoes, accepting their reasoning for what I felt could be interpreted as disloyalty, selfishness, and sometimes even scheming. I simply allowed others to be themselves, and if I discovered something unpleasant about them, I ignored it.

Now, those very same people are unable to do the same. They cannot set aside their own beliefs for others. They won’t sacrifice their own truth to allow someone else theirs. The level of entitlement, the level of selfishness, after much conditioning, is just too high.

In life, it is crucial to live your truth. Not everyone you make sacrifices for will be willing to do the same. Not everyone you help will be grateful. Not everyone you know, regardless of how long you’ve known them, will you be able to rely on, let alone trust. For many, this life is a game and in order for them to progress, they feel they must do so selfishly and unforgivingly. Fortunately for me, I understand that it’s not a game. We’re here for the experience and we can choose what that experience can be. I decided that I want to have fun and do things that make me happy. I want to follow what’s good and what feels good. Sometimes that means eliminating things that don’t serve me or my happiness. There will be tough decisions to make, but are they really that tough when you know that one decision will bring you joy and the other…won’t? For me, the choice is quite straightforward.

The Quiet Reckoning

~ Natal Galvan

“Daddy! I need help!”

A cry pierced the air, a symphony of irritation and mild alarm; it heralded no menace, only the onset of a deluge of tears that dared to breach the ramparts of my heart, long fortified. There, in her vibrant fuchsia chariot, the little girl and her companion sat, teetering on the edge of too-grown for such whimsical rides. Midway through their suburban odyssey, the spirited steed faltered, its electric lifeblood drained, leaving dreams momentarily stranded.


“DADDYYYYYYY!” He was still inside, and these young ladies had a block to drive.


Suddenly he bolts out of the house as if he had been catapulted but some unseen force, hops down the four small steps, landing on the sidewalk with a WAP! Within seconds he makes his way down the sidewalk and around the back of the Jeep. Grabbing onto the back, he begins to run, pushing them down the sidewalk and sending them all into laughter.


This is the moment that I burst into tears.


It dawned on me then, the stark realization that the bond I yearned for with my father was a dream unfulfilled, now lost to time. A year and a half had passed since his departure. His health had always been fragile, leading to numerous scares, but our estrangement made these moments less poignant. In truth, he had been absent from my life; thus, his passing did not leave a void.
On the day of his passing, my tears were not for the loss of a beloved father, for our love had never blossomed. Instead, I felt a peculiar sense of curiosity. Visiting him a week before, I saw a man unknown to me. He lay silent, eyes closed, hands twisted in pain or discomfort, his mouth agape. Caretakers attended to him, wiping away drool, moistening his lips, offering water through a sponge.


A solitary encounter with him became memorable when I played a song from my childhood from the movie, “An American Tale,” which we cherished. His reaction was unexpected—his face contorted, tears flowed, and he emitted sounds of deep distress.


Before me was a stranger, a man whose life had barely brushed against mine. I didn’t know his favorite color. I did not know his favorite food. I didn’t know what genre of movie he preferred. I knew little of him—his likes, dislikes, or passions—save for his love of music and women. Whether his feelings for us were born of love or guilt, I could not discern.


I’m not going to say that he never tried, but there were certain wounds too deep, etched onto the soul of my being that wouldn’t allow for that to fully happen. There were rare occasions in which I had been the one to try. I’d reach out to him with a plan of action. We’d talk for hours going over what our lives had been up to that point and sprinkling in how we had to try to fix it, this, us. We’d hang up the phone, I’d feel light, and accomplished. That bit of motivation would then be followed up with silence. He would disappear and we wouldn’t speak for what would be for a couple of years after that. This would be our pattern until the day he died.


As a reader, I was aware of the potential regret of not connecting with him, a sentiment echoed by my family. Yet, now that he is gone, it is not regret that weighs on me but a profound disappointment—a longing to experience the sorrow that eludes me, the natural grief of a child for their father.


For months after he died, I would anxiously wait for the moment everyone had been warning me about. The moment of missing him, of yearning to hear his voice, or to hold his cold hands (his hands were always cold- “Cold hands, warm heart” he’d say!) but that moment never really came. I would try to sit in silence and see if I could feel his presence. I’d try my hardest to pay close attention to my dreams to see if maybe he’d visit me there. I soon realized I was reverting to childhood, always waiting for him, wanting him to visit, always being met with disappointment. So, I gave up again like I had years back.


Perhaps I won’t grieve as I did upon witnessing my neighbor, his offspring in tow, navigating a bubblegum-pink Barbie Jeep under the somber March skies. Yet, there’s solace in the breakthrough, a quiet epiphany embraced in solitude. It was a moment graced with a tender reflection of him, untainted by even a whisper of bitterness.

Tales of a Beachcomber’s Odyssey

~ Natal Galvan

Flipping through a kaleidoscope of snapshots, it’s like a whirlwind tour of the many ‘me’s I’ve been! From the zany outfits to the cast of quirky characters I’ve moonlighted as, it’s been quite the show. Take the beach life, for example. When you’re young, the beach is your stage, but it’s not all sunshine and seashells, especially if you’re flying solo. The local beach brigade? A motley crew of sun-toasted, merry-makers in their golden years, toasting to the good ol’ days with a never-ending happy hour. They’re living it up—or so it seems—riding the wave of yesteryears, chasing a mirage of ‘more’ that’s just a bit too far out of reach.

Ah, paradise—a solo gig can feel like a tropical time-out. Days blend into each other, an infinite loop of sand, sun, and the same ol’ sea. Sure, Florida was a blast with its endless summer vibe, but even paradise can get old. How, you ask? Well, imagine the same sunny script, day in, day out, even the palm trees start to look like party props after a while. At first, it’s an exotic escape worth every sacrifice. But give it time, and you start to wonder what you traded in for this beachy dream.

Then comes the moment of truth, drawing that line in the sand—literally. To stay or not to stay? That is the beachy question. It’s like the ocean’s own siren song, luring you back to its shores. I’ve packed my bags for Florida not once, but twice, and I’d be fibbing if I said a third encore isn’t tempting. But hey, if I’ve waved goodbye twice, there’s gotta be a reason, right? It’s the same back-and-forth with my hometown—how many farewells and reunions can one have?

Gazing at these piles of photos, the faces, the places, it’s clear there’s a whole world out there waiting for me to dive in. I’m jazzed about discovering my next grand scene. Until then, I’ll keep on trekking, little adventures at a time. Who knows? Maybe I’ll find my next ‘spotlight’ in the most unexpected place.