Every year, as the days grow longer and the temperature climbs, a familiar question creeps into my mind: What should this summer be? Should it be full of rooftop parties, crowded festivals, and endless social plans? Or should it be a slow, soft season of reading in the sun, swimming in the lake, and doing absolutely nothing? For a long time, I thought I had to pick one. Now I know that the best summer lives somewhere in between.

The First Summer I Actually Lived

I still remember the summer I truly felt the season for the first time. I wasn't on a glamorous trip or at a beach club. I was in my parents' garden, sitting on a plastic garden chair that could recline just enough when you pulled the armrests up. The cushions were stored away in a shed, and I didn't care. I spent weeks half-lying there, shirtless, listening to music on my MP3 player, squinting into the sun. Each day, I stayed out five minutes longer, without sunscreen. My goal was to get a tan without burning. It worked, but with a strange result: my chest and face were beautifully brown, while my back and neck stayed pale. The tan lines along my sides were unusual, to say the least. On the first day of school, I proudly showed everyone. I can't remember anything else about that summer, but it was the first time I consciously lived the season. I had a goal, I followed through, and I had something to show for it. Today, I'm obsessed with sunscreen, but that summer taught me something about intention.

When Summer Becomes a Performance

As I got older, sitting in the garden was no longer enough. Somewhere around turning thirty, or maybe during the pandemic, my relationship with summer shifted. In my twenties, I just partied. I turned nights into days, and whether it rained or shone didn't matter. Excitement was the only goal. But then I started to feel a new kind of pressure. The summer seemed too short, too precious to waste. I began asking myself: Am I doing enough? Am I making the most of this? That pressure built until I realized I was trying to perform a perfect season rather than experience it.

The turning point came when I understood that each summer builds on the previous one. The things you do, the places you visit, the people you meet—they all become the foundation for the next season. Once I saw that, the pressure lifted. I no longer had to cram everything into one summer. I could take it step by step.

The Motto That Changed Everything

One phrase has become my guiding light: No one is coming. It sounds pessimistic, but it's actually liberating. I used to wait for friends to show up at my door, to sweep me away on an adventure they had planned. I imagined someone else would take charge and tell me to just relax. But that rarely happens. When I finally accepted that no one was coming, I started planning my own summer. I stopped attaching my expectations to other people and began to find energy within myself. That doesn't mean I don't value company, but I no longer depend on it to feel alive.

The Italian Summer That Taught Me to Be Alone

About ten years ago, I decided to do something just for me. I booked a language course in Italy and stayed with an elderly woman, a Nonna, who cooked for me. I didn't speak Italian well, and she spoke no English, so we communicated through gestures and broken phrases. Mornings were structured: three hours of lessons. Afternoons were free. I wandered through the small town, listened to conversations I barely understood, and practiced my poor Italian with the old lady who fed me. I wasn't a diligent student. I didn't study every word or master the grammar. But I learned something far more important: I can be alone without feeling lonely. The structure of the lessons gave me a frame, and within that frame, I felt secure. That experience changed how I approached solitude, and it shaped the years that followed.

Small Visions, Big Lessons

Not every summer experiment needs to be a grand journey. One year, I decided I wanted to be a person who rides a bike through the city. The summer was perfect: blue skies, hot asphalt, everything you could ask for. So I bought a bicycle and spent a fortune on accessories—a stylish basket, a cute helmet, a little neck scarf, and other bits and pieces. I imagined myself as the main character in a film, gliding through the streets with ease. Reality was different. My cardio was nowhere near ready for city traffic. After every ride, I would arrive drenched in sweat, breathing heavily for an hour. Still, the bike is still in my courtyard. I don't ride it often, but I ride it. That experiment taught me that trying on a new version of yourself is valuable, even when it doesn't stick.

The Festival That Almost Didn't Happen

Last year, my vision was a festival. I had never been to Barcelona, and I was never a festival person. I thought of crowds, queues, stress. But the idea of seeing several of my favorite artists in one weekend was irresistible. So I bought a ticket, booked a flight and accommodation, all six months in advance. I was excited and terrified. Going to a festival alone felt like the boldest move I could make. It turned out to be one of the best decisions of my life. I wasn't alone at all. Friends of mine were working there, and one friend who loves music and visits every year immediately offered to meet up. Suddenly, I had a whole group around me. We danced through the nights, took care of each other when things got overwhelming, and I even cried at a concert with a friend I had just met. We held each other, even though we didn't understand each other fully. Later, we laughed and hugged as the sun set. That summer will stay with me forever, not because of the lineup, but because I let it happen.

Letting Both Summer Types Exist

What stops me from doing the things I dream about? For years, I asked that question unconsciously. Now I ask it out loud. It helps me say yes to quiet days when I want to read a book in the sun, and it also helps me say yes to nights that stretch until dawn. I no longer get angry at myself when I do nothing at all. And when I spend a day recovering from a party, I don't call it wasted. Both summer types are allowed. They can even go hand in hand. The key is not to stand in your own way. If you have an idea for the summer, no matter how small, try to live it. Maybe your idea is just learning to make a proper iced latte. Then that will become the summer you made cold drinks, and that's okay. Cheers to that.

Source: MSN News