July 2012. I flew back to California with a broken heart, not like a girlfriend bad breakup kind, nor the one that stings when life simply doesn’t go your way. No, this was something deeper, something that reached into my very core and shattered everything I thought I knew about love, trust, and the life I had built. This was the kind of heartbreak that reaches down into the depths of your very soul and takes out whatever was left of your dignity.
Life, as I had known it, was no more. From this moment on, I was on an unfamiliar road—not one that I chose, but one I had no choice but to take. The only question was: how would I walk it? Would I summon what courage I have left and stride forward with the purpose of finding my destiny? Or would I be left on my knees; weighed down by heartbreak, drained in mind, body, and soul?
I arrived in San Francisco feeling like an empty shadow of the man I once was, completely devoid of enthusiasm for anything. The sights, the sounds, the iconic bridges and the historic hills and bays, it all passed by in a blur, drowned out by the relentless, nagging voice in my head asking, “What if” or “Is life even worth it”? My soul was screaming for what I’d lost, and my brain was doing its best to drown itself in self-pity.
At the airport, my Aunt was waiting. My parents halfway around the world away, she was all I had. I hadn’t seen her in years, maybe even a decade. She greeted me with a quiet smile before pulling me into a hug. And that’s when the floodgates of emotions opened—tears spilling onto her shoulder. It was the first time in hours, maybe even days, that I felt something other than despair. Because in that moment, I realized I wasn’t completely alone in the wreckage of my life.
Before heading to her house, we dropped by my cousin’s place—a lovely Californian home. I’ve always been fascinated with houses. In the way they’re built and in how they’re designed. Their age and character, and normally, I’d be admiring the interior by then. But not this time. This time, I was looking for something else; familiarity, or a sense that I still belonged somewhere.
That feeling didn’t last long.
For reasons I had suspicions about, they weren’t quite sure what to make of me. I don’t blame them. All the lies they had been told—malicious, insidious lies—seemed, at the time, entirely plausible. Maybe even unquestionable. Lies that time and circumstance have since proven wrong. But it didn’t matter. The damage was done. The evil that people do had already destroyed my home.
So when my cousin and his wife saw me, they exchanged uneasy glances before saying, in the warmest possible tone: “We didn’t want any part of your problem, but here you are bringing it into our doorstep.”
Family.
That sentence alone was enough to finish off whatever fragile grip I still had on my old life. But my Aunt? She wasn’t having any of it. With the kind of unwavering loyalty you only see in the worst situation, she reminded me exactly who I was. Who I came from. Whose grandson I was. And so, I bit my tongue, swallowed the anger, and held onto whatever shred of sanity I had left.
At my Aunt’s house, I met her husband—a man who, unlike most people at the time, actually showed me kindness. The food he cooked for me would make the old South proud, he counseled me, and most importantly, he gave me a piece of advice that, even now, I think about often. “Anger,” he said, “is like a ball. You throw it at someone, and it bounces right back. The trick is to not throw it at all. Or, if you must, throw it so far away it never comes back.”
Profound stuff.
And so began my slow recovery. My Aunt had me up at the crack of dawn for long walks. We’d start the day at a coffee shop, stroll through Salinas Park, and feed stray cats and foxes because, apparently, that’s just what we did now. And then there was the politics. It was 2012, and the country was deep in the throes of Obama vs. Romney. My Aunt, being the type of person who doesn’t shy away from a good debate, gave an impassioned speech to a room full of coffee shop patrons about the importance of voting. Only for the owner, in the most deadpan delivery possible, to inform her afterward that every single person in that shop was an undocumented immigrant.
“Well,” she shrugged, “maybe they can use that knowledge when they get legal.”
Legend.
Days turned into weeks. I kept myself busy with chores—fixing fences, tending the yard, tutoring math to kids at the local library, anything that kept me moving and my mind from imploding. Slowly, grudgingly, I got a little better. Good enough. Then, on a whim, I drove more than seven hours to Southern California to see my childhood friends. And there, I was welcomed with open arms. No judgment, no awkward glances. Just love and acceptance. They had no idea, but inside, I was crying tears of joy. Because in that moment, I realized something crucial—that I would love them forever.
Back in Salinas, I dealt with what I now recognize as deep depression. Every day, I drove to the beach using an old Dodge pickup truck, a truck that had so much rust and character it could have been on National Geographic. On one particular bright, sunny day, as I sat in the parking lot overlooking the ocean, a Japanese tourist holding a camera with huge long lens, knocked on my window. I rolled it down just enough to hear him.
“Excuse me,” he said, pointing to his camera, “where can I find a white surfer girl?”
I blinked. Surely, I had misheard him. But no, he repeated it. Louder. Slower. “White. Surfer. Girl.”
I thought, now what was I supposed to do with that information? Give him a map? Offer him a brochure? Instead, I just muttered, “Dude… you might wanna try the beach,” and rolled my window back up.
People are weird.
Months passed. Eventually, my sister, returned from her mournful trip, one of my guardian angels and invited me to live with her and her family in Indiana. And so, I packed up, got on an airplane, and began the next chapter of my life.
Lastly, there’s something I need to say.
To my Aunt, my generous, loving Aunt, my mother’s last remaining sister from her childhood—we may not have spent long stretches of time together, but when it truly mattered, you were there, you saved my life and I love you profoundly. And to her husband, whose wisdom still guides me to this day—I don’t know what I would have done without you, thank you and I love you like a father.
To my beloved cousins in North Carolina and California—without you, I can’t begin to imagine where I would have ended up. To my cousin in North Carolina, I miss you every day. I still cherish those impromptu dinners in Charlotte whenever I’m in town, the kind that never needed planning, just good company, lots and lots of laughter and shared moments.
To my sister, my Indiana sister, whose love has always been a part of my life, my sister as I have always known. She who was ever so patient with me, I miss our conversations on our drive to work every day. I felt really happy in the car with you, with Christmas songs playing in the background. And to her husband, who inspires me to this day—I will love you both forever.
To all my Californian friends, lord knows I cannot express just how much I love all of you. Part of my heart is with our friend right now. She will be back. And when she does, let’s do one of those sleepovers again. I love you with all of me.
And if I may: Depression is real. It’s not a disease that manifest physically, not something you can catch, and certainly not something to be ashamed of. It’s a deeply personal struggle, marked by deep sorrow and hardship. Right now, over 21 million Americans are battling it. But here’s the good news—you don’t have to face it alone. Whether it’s your loved ones, a counselor, or a psychologist, help is there if you reach for it. The first step is the hardest, but it starts with asking for help.
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