Originally posted on my personal blog, VACILANDO. I thought it was worth sharing here as well.

It’s only the second day of August, and already I feel it slipping away.

Summer in New England is a master of false promises. You wait all year for it—through sleet, through piles of snow on the sidewalks, through endless gray. You make plans. Big plans. Road trips to see friends you haven’t hugged in too long. Picnics by the ocean. Long weekends at the lake where time feels like it stretches a little. But somehow, none of it happens the way it did in your head.

You try to squeeze in a drive along the coast, only to be swallowed by traffic before you even reach the beach. A picnic? Maybe next weekend, if the weather holds and no one has a family thing. That lake weekend? Turns into one night—if you’re lucky—followed by a frantic Sunday scramble to beat the traffic home.

And yet, summer is the season we all romanticize.

As a kid, summer was freedom in its purest form. We rode our bikes until the sun went down—and even after. I was born on the 60’s and really grew up in the late 70’s and early 80’s Our parents had no clue where we were, and honestly, neither did we. We could’ve been in town, or two towns over, or, once or twice, in another state entirely. No phones, just friends and endless roads.

Some of my most formative summers were spent at gymnastics camp. That’s where I really learned how to coach—andwhere I learned a few other things I probably shouldn’t have. But most importantly, it’s where I met my wife. We became a couple at that camp. Everything we’ve built together—our family, our work, our life—it all traces back to those hot, muggy, joy-filled days.

I miss those people. I miss the camaraderie. I miss the carefree days and the questionable decisions at night. There was a freedom in those years that’s hard to replicate. Life wasn’t simpler—just more spontaneous.

And yet—I never fail to appreciate what I have now. I’m deeply grateful to live comfortably, especially in a time when so many people are struggling just to get by. That’s not something I take lightly. There’s peace in knowing that my family is safe, and our needs are met. That’s a kind of wealth I don’t ever want to take for granted.

But still—summer moves too fast.

As adults, the season is no longer endless. It’s scheduled. It’s booked. It’s full of obligations and logistics. Even beauty can feel rushed when it’s crammed between calendar appointments.

Sometimes a song will come on, and I’m instantly transported. The other day it was “Just Like Heaven” by The Cure, and suddenly I was seventeen again—sweaty, smiling, leaning against the wall of a dorm at camp, wondering what the night would bring. No responsibilities. No schedule. Just music, people, and the sense that anything could happen.

In those moments, I feel it all again—the joy, the freedom, the ache.

So next summer, I want to be more deliberate. I want to appreciate the scent of fresh-cut grass—the kind you first notice in spring, that smells like promises to be kept. I want to savor simple walks with my wife and our dog, when no boots or jackets are needed. I want to sit by a campfire under a clear sky, counting stars and spotting the occasional satellite. I want more boat rides. More dinners with our friends at the lake. More Waffle Sundays with my own maple syrup. I want to appreciate each moment as it comes—not in hindsight, not when it’s slipping away, but right then.

Summer is cruel. Not because it’s unkind—but because it always leaves too soon.

But the memories… those stay.

And right now, I’m sitting by the campfire at the lake. Solar lights glow on the dock, casting reflections across the boat. Strings of warm bulbs hang in the trees, giving the night a soft, golden hush. I hear laughter from across the water—other families, other friends, also trying to hold on to this fleeting season.

And I’m lucky. Lucky to be here. Lucky to have a wonderful wife to share it all with.

This moment, right now… this one won’t slip away.