Yes, For a While

Yes, For a While

Photo by Abdulrahman Ibrahim on Unsplash

I lived one block from the ocean. My first morning waking up alone, I decided to walk to the beach and photograph the sunrise—one block, an easy stroll for most, a gauntlet for me. At the end of the street, where the dunes rose, a weathered bench waited. I sat.

The sun lifted itself over the water in slow, deliberate increments. I exhaled—fully, for the first time since the illness began.

I had left behind my medical team and the familiar rhythms of hospice. Somehow, against the odds, I lived. My body was altered but still here, and I wanted to see what kind of life might be left in it. I promised myself I would walk to the beach every morning and photograph the sunrise. And I did. I have many beautiful photos.

As winter shifted toward spring, I began to notice the regulars. Fishermen in waders. Surfers waxing boards. Lifeguards scanning empty water. Volunteers shielding turtle nests. No one was hiding. Women in bikinis traced their surgical scars like topographical maps. Men with oxygen tanks leaned into the wind. Barrel-chested guys in tiny Speedos strutted past. Bodies that had been through something—yet there they were, claiming the day. If they could show up as they were, maybe I could too.

I set my sights on the fishing pier a mile down the coast. Walking at the surf line was easier than trudging through deep sand. Over time—slowly, stubbornly—my strength returned. The day I made it to the pier and back, I was tickled pink. Strength in my legs opened doors beyond the sand—first trivia nights, then the corner bar where laughter spilled like tap beer.

One evening, I sat midway along the bar while a group gathered at the far end. One voice, one presence, stood out—Bobby. His laugh cracked like a whip, then softened into something almost shy. He eventually made his way down and introduced himself—just a few words, a smile, and an ease I hadn’t felt in years. That night, I gave him my number. Something I hadn’t done since my twenties.

A few months later, he showed up at my house with two coffees and asked if I’d like to go to breakfast. I wasn’t sure, but at my sister’s urging, I said yes. That breakfast was the beginning. Bobby liked his breakfast potatoes crispy with extra onions and brown gravy—a small, vivid detail I’ll never forget.

Soon, he became part of my days. Most mornings, he’d swing by with coffee for each of us. We would go out to the garden, and before long he was directing the work—what to trim, where to replant, which branches needed to go. He had the knowledge; I had the energy. We were a good team. Though sometimes his grip on the pruning shears felt a little too tight.

Being with him meant not being alone at the beach anymore. We’d join his friends where they gathered—the bar, the pier, anywhere laughter and salt air were abundant. I found joy in belonging again—in being part of a group, not just a woman alone with her thoughts.

One night, after dinner and drinks, we walked toward the pier where string lights glowed and live music drifted over the boardwalk. When his arm brushed mine, something in me woke up. Desire. Electricity. Not shocking—welcome. My body remembered itself. And I wanted to follow that feeling.

We danced—slow, close—my cheek to his shoulder. It was soft and intoxicating, the kind of moment I’d once believed I’d never feel again. I could have stepped back. I could have said I wasn’t ready. But I chose yes. I trusted what was happening and agreed to be an active participant in my own life again.

But desire has a shadow. In the quiet spaces—when there was no music, no group around us—I began to notice the edges. As much as I was expanding, Bobby was constricting. He needed noise and distraction. And when the distractions weren’t enough, fear slipped out sideways—jealousy, raised voices, the need to know where I was and who I was with. There were moments that felt like surveillance, not affection.

As much as I gained from saying yes, I learned something I didn’t expect: discernment. There were parts of my old life I was not willing to return to. I had rebuilt my peace with intention. I wasn’t going to hand it back over to chaos.

For a while, Bobby was exactly what I needed—my something like this.

Not the whole future.
Not the person I’d build a life with.
But the song that reminded me
I still had rhythm.
I still had desire.
I still belonged in the world.

He was an intentional yes, and I’m grateful our lives crossed when they did.

Some people arrive to help you return to yourself.
They don’t have to stay to be meaningful.

He was my yes for a while—my something like this.
And I hope I was his something like this, too.
But that’s not the part that matters.

What matters is that when joy finally found me again—
I said yes.