The Challenge I Didn’t Think I’d Survive

It started, as these things often do, with a latte.

I was at my favorite Santa Monica café, sipping on an overpriced oat milk creation that tasted mostly like optimism, when my date asked the question. A question so innocuous, so seemingly disarming, that I almost didn’t realize it was a trap.

“So… what does commitment mean to you?”

The air immediately felt heavier, like the marine layer had crept indoors. My knee-jerk reaction was to deflect—make a self-deprecating quip about how I once kept a houseplant alive for six months and called it a long-term relationship. But as her eyes locked with mine, I sensed this wasn’t the moment for jokes.

I panicked. Commitment? Meaning? Me? These were big words for a first month of dating. My brain stalled like a surfboard stuck in a dead wave. How could I, of all people, be the poster child for “stable and reliable”? The guy who spent three months living in a yurt because it felt “authentically grounded”?

But instead of answering, I just froze, staring at her like she had just asked me to solve for the meaning of life. (Spoiler: she kind of had.)

The “C” Word (and Why I Was Terrified of It)

Let me explain. Growing up in Santa Barbara, the concept of commitment was a double-edged sword. My parents had what you’d call an “aspirational marriage”—big smiles, cohosting fundraisers like pros, always composed in front of company. But behind the scenes, their relationship didn’t so much thrive as persist. Their commitment wasn’t romantic; it was transactional. And for that reason, the whole idea of permanence turned my stomach into a pretzel.

I wasn’t afraid of losing someone. I was afraid of being stuck—of becoming so entangled in a relationship that I’d wake up one day, years deep, unable to recognize myself. Ask Joan Didion—California can be both freeing and suffocating. That’s how the word “commitment” felt to me: a mansion with no fire escapes.

In my environmental consultancy days, my life was ruled by twelve-month contracts. Deliverables. Deadlines. I’d hop from one project to another, never tethered too long to any one cause. I liked it that way. There were exes, sure, but even those relationships had an easy-breezy West Coast expiration date. Board up the windows before the storm hits, right?

But then came her—the woman at the café, equal parts radiant and intimidating. Suddenly, I was out of my depth. I was no longer an amateur surfer playing in the whitewash; I’d paddled right into the swell.

Analysis Paralysis: The Long, Awkward Silence

If you’ve ever tried to turn a romantic moment into a TED Talk in real time, you’ll understand what happened to me next. My mind embarked on a frantic scavenger hunt for an intelligent answer:

  • "Commitment means building… togetherness?!"
  • "It’s about growth, but also space! Like a redwood forest!"
  • "Does noncommittal spinach count as a vibe?"

Spoiler: I said none of these things. Instead, I blurted out, “Uh, I don’t know. What do you think commitment means?” Classic dodge-and-reverse, the verbal equivalent of tripping on the sidewalk and pretending you meant to do it.

Her response? Direct but nonjudgmental. “I think it’s about showing up. Being present, even when it’s hard.”

Well, damn.

Easy for her to say, I thought. My version of “showing up” typically involved daylighting as a charming, vaguely mysterious guy while emotionally turtling whenever things got serious. Vulnerability was like compost—great in small doses but messy when left unchecked.

The Turning Point: A Very Unexpected (and Humbling) Challenge

Here’s where the story takes a sharp turn. A few weeks after that café date, I decided to lean in—just a little. I agreed to join her for a weekend camping trip in Big Sur. Classic California romance, right? Except this would be camping of the no-Wi-Fi, no-espresso-machines variety.

I’d like to say I approached this weekend with rugged enthusiasm, but unfortunately, I was woefully unprepared. Day one, my borrowed tent collapsed in the middle of the night. Day two, I spilled coffee grounds in my only sweatshirt and somehow got poison oak. By day three, I was surviving on granola bars and sheer pride.

Then, at the height of my misery, I saw her—patiently teaching a stranger how to light a campfire, laughing off the damp chill of the morning like it was nothing. She was warm and solid where I was frayed and faltering. Commitment, it struck me, wasn’t always about grand gestures or perfect plans. Sometimes, it was simply the ability to endure the poison-oak days without checking out.

In other words: showing up.

What I Learned About Commitment—and Myself

Back in Santa Monica that Monday, sunburned and humbled, I started thinking about what that camping trip had taught me. Commitment isn’t a trap, or a confining box, or even a mansion without fire escapes. It’s not about clinging tightly to something out of fear of losing it. It’s about trust and presence—the quiet confidence that you can weather both the highs and the very soggy, granola-bar-fueled lows.

Here’s what practicing commitment has looked like for me since:

  1. Accepting Impermanence: Ironically, the more I embraced the idea that relationships (and people) evolve, the less anxious I felt about locking in. Change doesn’t mean failure; it means growth.

  2. Reframing Vulnerability: I stopped treating emotional discomfort like poison ivy and let someone see me—messy sweatshirt and all. (Though I now carry calamine lotion, just in case.)

  3. Action Over Ideals: My inner perfectionist wanted to “define” commitment before experiencing it. But relationships thrive on doing—whether that’s learning how to pitch a tent together or showing up to hear each other out, latte in hand.

The Moral of (and Next Chapter in) the Story

I won’t pretend I’ve got it all figured out. Relationships are still messy, people are still messy, I’m definitely still messy. But something shifted on that trip—and no, it wasn’t just the tectonic plates of the West Coast.

We broke up a few months later—not dramatically, not unkindly, just two people realizing their paths veered off in different directions. And yet, it didn’t feel like failure. For the first time, I looked back on a relationship and saw my own growth reflected in it—and that was enough.

Commitment isn’t about forever. It’s about being brave enough to stay present, even in the messiest of moments.

So, to anyone reading this who’s terrified of the “C” word—whether it’s in a five-year relationship or a first date over matcha: Breathe. Commit to the moment in front of you. Commit to learning, laughing (even at the poison oak), and showing up for the small stuff.

Because nine out of ten times, even small steps lead somewhere beautiful.