Morning Rituals: Where Coffee Meets Reflection
Let me paint you a picture: it’s 6:15 a.m., and the first rays of sun are filtering through the towering pines that hug my cabin. The air is crisp (think: the first bite of an apple), and there’s a faint hum—the sound of the lake patiently waiting for its day to begin. My mornings don’t start in a rush; they stretch slowly, the way syrup pools at the edge of a pancake. I realize this makes me sound like some unplugged hermit in a travel magazine ad, but stay with me: it’s not all serenity and sparkling water out here.
First, I caffeinate. I’m not talking about a sleek latte or whatever concoction has hit Instagram this season (pumpkin spice, I’m looking at you). My coffee-making process is rustic at best, bordering on a survivalist hobby. It’s just me, my battered French press that’s seen too many winters, and a kettle that whistles like it’s auditioning for an old Western. There’s something humbling about grinding beans yourself—especially when you spill half of them and spend the next five minutes apologizing to your dog for startling him.
The coffee’s done, and this is where I check in with myself. Some people journal or meditate. Me? I stare out the window and get lost in questions like, "Is it too cold to kayak yet?" or "Did I imagine that bear footprint by the shed last night?" It’s my unfiltered moment of clarity, where I let whatever thoughts come to the surface, even if it’s something as small as debating whether flannel counts as a personality trait.
Work Before Play (But Nature Always Wins)
Once I’m caffeinated and moderately existential, I dive into work. By "work," I mean toggling between writing deadlines for this publication and pitching myself to editors who, at times, are less intrigued by Lake Tahoe's serenity than I think they should be. Writing is like dating in that way—you’ll put yourself out there, get ghosted 80% of the time, and occasionally, someone sees what makes you unique. Pro tip: rejection bruises less when you have mountain views.
But the truth is, some days nature calls louder than anything in my inbox. That’s the thing about a place like Tahoe—it doesn’t just sit prettily in the background while you ignore it. It yanks you out of yourself, like that one friend who refuses to let you wallow in heartbreak and insists you go dancing. Sometimes I’ll pause mid-email to take a quick hike or paddle out on the lake. (And okay, full disclosure: "quick" often turns into "accidentally three hours later.")
If I’m out on a trail, it’s my time to mentally untangle stuff. I think about life, about how often people see love as this grand mountaintop moment when, really, it’s more like hiking. You’re trudging uphill, you’re sweating, you’re pretty sure there’s a blister forming—and then suddenly, the view hits, and it’s worth it. Relationships, like trails, take work. And snacks. Always snacks.
Midday Adventures and Small Town Charm
By noon, I’m usually scrounging up something that passes for lunch. Living in a small mountain town means your options are limited, but you get creative. I’ve become strangely talented at throwing together something gourmet-ish with whatever’s lurking in my fridge. Brie and apple quesadilla, anyone? (Look, don’t knock it until you’re wrapped in flannel eating this masterpiece at 5,000 feet above sea level.)
Afternoons are the wildcard part of my day. If I’m not crossing off to-dos, you’ll find me fixing random cabin problems—a leaky faucet, a creaky porch step—with all the confidence of someone who’s Googled, "How hard can this really be?" One crisp autumn afternoon, I accidentally trapped myself under my own porch while trying to repair a loose beam. I had flashbacks to the time I got stuck in a borrowed wetsuit while trying to impress someone at a post-college beach bonfire. Spoiler alert: both situations required help and a lot of sheepish explanations. I’ve learned relationships thrive when you can both laugh at yourself and accept help when you’re flat on your back under a porch.
Where Reflection Meets Connection
Evenings are my quiet time. This doesn’t mean solitude; it means intentionality. Growing up in a lodge surrounded by stories from strangers taught me that connection isn’t always about grand gestures. Sometimes it’s about sharing a single pot of chili with friends who are practically family, or calling an old fling-turned-friend to swap life updates. My dating life has evolved from whirlwind romances to a deeper appreciation for moments that feel... grounded. You can only spend so many sunrises alone with a French press before you realize coffee tastes better shared.
I have a firm belief that dating shouldn’t feel like a performance. A while ago—let’s call it my “bravely stupid phase”—I thought asking someone out had to be dramatic, like the end of a rom-com. (Did I gesture wildly while holding a pizza in a grocery store aisle to ask someone out? Yes. Did it work? Nope.) Now I aim for connection that feels as natural as my morning routine: comforting in its rhythm, surprising in its detail.
If there’s any advice I can tuck into this wandering tale, it’s this: let your life shape your relationships, not the other way around. If the lake has taught me anything, it’s that depth doesn’t come from trying to be something you’re not. It’s just about showing up—in all your messiness, in your coffee-stained flannel, and yes, maybe even with a fridge full of only apples and brie.
A Parting Thought (aka Trent’s Golden Nugget)
At the end of the day, whether it’s finding love or fixing a leaky faucet, the journey matters more than the outcome. Life is a collection of small, meaningful moments strung together like fairy lights on a porch eave. They don’t demand perfection; they ask only that you notice them, that you show up with curiosity and maybe a bit of laughter.
My day might start with coffee and end with reflection, but in between, it’s full of lessons—about love, nature, and how hard it is to keep matching socks in a cabin that eats everything. And if you made it this far, I like to think you’re the sort of person who notices these little moments too. Here's to navigating our trails, one step at a time.
