The Version of Us That Won’t Last Forever

Ever since I was a child, I remember being absolutely beside myself after leaving vacation. I’d start stressing a few days before we had to go, and by the day of departure, I’d feel physically sick. I would usually cry in my room, feeling so down as the end approached.

Sometimes it made it hard to enjoy the trip while it was happening. I was so afraid of it ending that I didn’t even notice the magic unfolding right in front of me.

My twenties came and went, and so did the idea that I’d ever grow out of it.

It always felt immature, like I was the only one on the brink of tears on the last day of vacation. I’d try to savor every moment, especially time with my family, and count down the hours we had left together.  I even looked forward to the long drive or flight home because it meant just a little more time together—and a little more time away from reality.  It wasn’t just sadness about leaving.  It was full-blown devastation.

I didn’t want to return to the version of life where everything felt heavy and stressful. I’d put off a lot of things and tell myself I’d deal with them after the trip. But then the trip would end, and all those tasks came barreling through like they knew happiness was temporary and came to prove a point.

Vacation always felt like an escape—a brief glimpse into a life I could have but didn’t yet. It wasn’t really about taking time off from work. It was about stepping into a different world, one where time slowed down and responsibilities fell away. It reminded me of a version of life I had almost forgotten, where roles didn’t matter and just being with the people I loved most was enough.

For the first few trips after getting sober, I didn’t feel this way. I actually looked forward to coming home, settling into my new routines, grounding myself.

But this most recent trip hit differently. There was a sinking feeling I couldn’t shake, one that showed up before the trip ended, like a quiet grief.

I was still in the moment but already mourning its end. I didn’t want it to be over. And it wasn’t just about the trip. It was about the feeling of being held in something warm, safe, and fleeting.

The realization hit me hard—this version of us is temporary. We may share something similar again, maybe even something better, but this exact moment can’t be recreated.

My nephew is getting older. One day, he might not want to hang out with us on family vacations. My parents are aging.  Life is changing all the time, but it’s only in moments like this that I truly feel the weight of that truth.  You don’t think about these things in the day-to-day routine.  It only ever seems to hit after you’ve experienced something beautiful—or, unfortunately, something tragic.

Even writing it down feels too heavy. But it’s real. And I think that’s why this sadness hits so hard. It’s not just post-vacation blues. It’s the ache of knowing we’ll never be together in exactly this way again. The version of our family that existed during this trip is already gone.

But maybe that’s the point of life—offering us fleeting glimpses of happiness in the in-between moments of chaos and routine.

I know I sound like a total Debbie Downer. Because, well—I am. I wish I didn’t feel everything so deeply, but that’s just how I’m wired, whether I like it or not.

Coming home this time felt like a crash. I realized I’m not returning to the life I dream of. I love my cats to death and was so grateful to see them, but everything else just felt... dull in comparison.

But when I think about what I loved most about the trip, like waking up early to watch the sunrise, doing yoga on the beach, eating good food, being surrounded by people I love, and going to bed early, I realize it’s not impossible. Those things can exist here too. Maybe not with the same scenery or sense of escape, but in smaller, sacred ways.

Maybe the goal isn’t to recreate vacation but to weave pieces of it into everyday life.

I think this ache is just proof that it mattered. That I’m lucky to have something worth missing. These people, these moments, this slice of life—it all means something to me. And maybe the reason it hurts now is because I was actually there for it. I let myself feel the joy while it was happening.

Maybe the answer isn’t to escape the grief, but to soften into it. To let it remind me: You were here. You loved it. You’re still loving it, even as it slips away.

Maybe that’s what life is asking of us. To recognize joy while it’s here, before it’s just a story you tell yourself to remember how it felt.

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*I should probably mention that I’m recovering from Covid for what feels like the millionth time, and this entire post was brought to you by a fever dream. That probably explains the existential spiral.

When the fog clears, I might reread this and laugh at how dramatic it all sounds. Or maybe I’ll realize it was my subconscious speaking softly, finally slipping through the cracks.

Either way, I think something true made its way to the surface.