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When I say I think about the PNW a hundred times a day, I’m not exaggerating. It’s a longing that sits deep in my bones, an ache that feels almost unnatural in its intensity. I crave the crisp, fresh air on a winter morning, the kind that wakes up your soul with every inhale. I miss the romantic lull of the rain, the endless thickets of green, the towering evergreens that whisper in the wind. The ocean, wild and untamed, the winding hiking trails that feel like portals to another world, the abundance of water that nourishes everything in sight. I miss actual seasons—the kind where I wake up unsure of what the day will bring, even though I check the weather daily. But you know what I mean. I am constantly stalking house in Portland for the perfect house, even though I am a solid six years away from being able to move back. The beauty of where I am from visits me in dreams at night, and during the day, it drifts in and out of my thoughts like a tide I can’t stop chasing. I know where I belong, and it is there. But just in case I needed another sign, I found one over Christmas break. One that I know I didn’t make up, because I have a witness.
Over Christmas break, I headed up to Bend, Oregon, with my sister, niece, Poppy, and Quinn. We’ve been doing ski trips together for the past few years, building memories out of fresh powder and chilly mountain air. Quinn learned to snowboard a while back, and Poppy is still mastering her ski legs. I grew up skiing—it’s woven into who I am, one of those things that lights my soul on fire. Nothing feels more like home to me than gliding down slopes through freshly fallen snow. Technically, we have a mountain in Arizona, some dainty-ass slope up in Flagstaff, but you’ll never catch me skiing there. I’ve been thoroughly spoiled by Oregon’s magical mountains, and now I stubbornly refuse to settle for less. Call me stubborn, call me jaded—both would be accurate. But I prefer to think that I just have really fucking good taste. Honestly, the mountain up in Flagstaff is lame as fuck. Add that to the list of hundreds of reasons I loathe living here.
On this particular day, Poppy was off at ski school, so Quinn and I jumped into the lift line heading up one of the gentler hills, hoping we might spot her skiing below. As we stood there, a ski instructor and a little boy, maybe three or four years old, slid up beside us. “Good job, Ronan! You’re doing great today!” Quinn immediately looked over at me, and in that instant, I knew I hadn’t imagined those words. Our eyes locked, and he gave me that broken-hearted brother smile—the kind that both comforts and shatters you at once. I felt the tears well up. Then again, the instructor’s voice: “Come on, Ro! We’ve got to move those legs to get on the lift!”
The tears fell freely now; there was no point in hiding them. Quinn gently touched my shoulder, quietly asking if I was okay. I nodded, even though, at that moment, I felt caught somewhere between euphoria and the urge to throw up. How lucky was I to receive this unexpected sign from Ronan? And yet, simultaneously, how devastating to remember that my own child is dead. It’s something I’ll never fully comprehend—the fact that joy and grief walk so closely, forever hand in hand.
When I tell you, with every broken-hearted beat in my chest, that I belong back in the Pacific Northwest, I mean it with my entire being. And you know what? Ronan knows it, too. Because on that day, in his own unmistakable words and his own magical way, he made sure to tell me. Until that day comes, I’ll be here suffering and aching for the place every part of me belongs.
Thank you, Ronan, for forever being my guiding light. I miss you, I love you, and I hope you are safe.
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