Most people in this world spend the year counting down to summer – the three months of freedom, when school ends, or workdays grow shorter, when daylight lingers, and the heat begins to burn. It’s the season of running around in swimsuits, lying still for hours as the sun kisses our skin from pale to warm, of driving down the coast in a roofless convertible and forgetting every problem that ever existed. It’s laughing with friends until the sun rises, having the corners of your mouth covered with sticky marshmallow and melted chocolate from the third s’more you ate that night, and it’s letting the California sun soak so deeply into you, that it feels like its power controls your mood, pulling out the happiest version of yourself.
I wish this version of summer reflected me. But the truth is, I hate summer.
Summer reminds me of this utopian version of myself that is only visible once every century – that somehow my mind will forget all of its damage; where happiness exists effortlessly, even if only for a moment. I dreamed about it recently. I was lying in one of those long white beach chairs with a bright pink and white striped towel beneath me, and the sun was glowing softly against my face. My feet were covered by grainy white sand, each grain slowly cutting my bare feet, and I was looking out onto the California coast. The cliffs in the distance staring back at me, watching the deep blue waves grow higher and higher with each crash. For a moment, it felt cinematic, like I had finally stepped into the joy everyone else seems to find so easily.
Then a second passed. I looked around and realized I was the only one on the beach. The sky was no longer clear, my bare back felt drops of rain, I looked up, and clouds began to roll in, casting shadows over what had once been a perfect, sunlit day. Â
I was alone.
I think about that dream often. About how summer isn’t the flawless fantasy we wait all year for. It forces you to confront the strange grief of imagining a version of yourself you’re supposed to love but in fact don’t. It’s often hard to remember that the person you were before summer feels unrecognizable by the time it ends, and somewhere in between, you’re left wondering where you even are meant to be.
Maybe this is only an interpersonal experience, but summer doesn’t feel like what it used to be. Everyone has their own version of it, but secretly deep down, I hope my summer has the same magic, longer than just once in a century.Â