Drafts & Daydreams
the undercurrents of my life
The Moth: two wheels
WONDERS: Prepare a five-minute story about life's knee-buckling moments. Feeling small under the stars, meeting the love of your life, finding the toy before finishing the cereal box. Expansive views or small, perfect instants. Regale us with tales of ventures into uncharted territory....and how your life was changed forever by what you found there.
Morgan’s Story:
Fueled by the lyrics of Third Eye Blind, pink lemonade Nuun, and a few corny Dolly Parton quotes, I started biking. “Storms make trees take deeper roots,” I told myself at the base of an 8-mile, 1,600 ft. climb that felt like a personal attack. There’s something about biking and ‘90s post-grunge alt-rock that makes me forget all the bad shit. My theory? Biking is part pain, part freedom, and part hoping no one sees you cry on the side of a gravel road.
I got into biking after two ankle surgeries and the cold, hard truth that running is kind of a scam. I loved running because it felt like the only time I could fully go for it. I don’t know how to “go for it” while doing normal activities like reading or baking banana bread. But tell me there’s a metaphorical bear chasing me and suddenly I’m an Olympic-level sprinter with something to prove.
Then came the bike. I didn’t find it on my own—my ex got me into biking. He also broke up with me a week before my third ankle surgery, so, you know, mixed review. But honestly, if his sole purpose in my life was to introduce me to biking and then emotionally disappear? That’s fine with me.
My first “real ride” other than biking to Trader Joes to “save the planet” was near Ochoco National Forest, July 2022. 44 miles. 4,500 feet of climbing. 80% gravel. Gravel, if you’re lucky enough not to know, is like biking through sand with a thousand tiny rocks trying to ruin your day. At a 17% grade, you’re barely moving, thighs shaking, trying not to topple over while whispering death threats to the earth. And the dust out there? It’s like the ghost of every burnt piece of toast you’ve ever made—fine, clingy, and vaguely judgmental.
By hour three, I’d cried twice, cursed the concept of recreational sports, and seriously considered throwing my bike into the woods and becoming a forest witch. But then: the map wasn’t lying. A five-mile downhill stretch, smooth(ish), winding through a glowing canyon like some kind of bike propaganda ad. I rounded the bend and everything changed. I didn’t ascend to heaven or anything, but I did throw my arms out like Rose on the Titanic and scream-laugh into the void. I even saw a bald eagle. Like, what are the odds? It was so on-the-nose I half expected it to be carrying a tiny American flag. And suddenly I’m free.
For five miles, I wasn’t in pain. I wasn’t thinking. I wasn’t trying. I was just flying. Arms out, no hands, bugs in my teeth, full send. That kind of joy doesn’t show up often, and when it does, you just ride it. No overthinking. Just pure, stupid bliss.
That’s the thing about biking. You suffer just enough to feel like you’ve been personally wronged by the universe, and then you get a slice of magic that makes you forget how bad everything hurt five minutes ago. Rinse, repeat.
Now, when life feels like a never-ending uphill gravel slog—and it usually does—I think about that canyon. Not because it changed my life forever or made me a better person or any of that bull shit. But because it was so good it made the rest of it almost worth it.
Almost.
The Art of Staying
I’ve lived in Portland for five years now, and no place has ever felt more like home—the people, the weather, the trees. This city has taught me its little secrets. Convinced me that water and walking are the ingredients to a happy life. Swimming in water. Drinking it. Soaking in it while laying under the sun. Walking six miles per day just to keep my head clouds away. Walking in the rain. It might not work for everyone, but it works for me.
My high school econ professor liked to remind us that time is a luxury and that we live in a world of sacrifices and choices. Nothing is free. For me, walking for hours is a fixed expense. It’s a priority after knowing for months what it’s like not to walk. People often forget that if you want to make time for something, you will. I’ll always walk if my body lets me. I’ll always pursue what feels right. And I’ll always leave if I’m not wanted.
Leaving California was the best decision I ever made. Staying in my hometown physically pained me. And then one day, I left, and for the first time, I knew I was never coming back. I’m under the impression that you can move away from your problems. Putting 500 miles between me and everything else felt like a lifetime of worry had been lifted off my shoulders. Why was I carrying so much? What was I holding onto? Portland welcomed me with open arms. I made friends during a global pandemic and then made more.
Making friends in your mid-20s is strange. Sometimes, friendship happens instantly, like you were destined to meet, and other times, it’s a slow burn that usually solidifies after an emotional vent sesh or a night of dancing. Both are important. I didn’t know it then, but the people in my life entered at a time I needed them most. Some friends leave along the way. And some have been there since the very beginning. We share a secret language that consists of equal parts laughter, shit-talking, and unconditional support. Even though we didn’t all grow up together, we had the same experiences, the same heartbreak, the same story. Nothing is more sacred than the bond shared between the ones who stayed.
There’s something about relationships that aren’t bound by titles or obligations. No expectations, no contracts—just people choosing each other over and over again. Pillow talk in the living room, old episodes of Vanderpump Rules playing in the background, crying together on a full moon because some nights are like that.
I won’t tell you all the reasons I love it here because you might not understand. They’re not up for grabs. They’re not tagged on Instagram or promoted by influencers. They exist in the quiet, ordinary moments—Like biking 30 miles through the city and across state lines, feeling the wind on my face. Jumping into the nearest body of water, just because I can, because there’s always water close by. Sitting on my porch, watching a rainstorm as sunlight cuts through and reclaims the sky. Laughing with my best friends for hours talking about who we were in past lives. It took me five years to understand it, to feel it fully—but I get it now.
Portland, the lows have been low, and the highs have been high, but you’ll always be home. I hope everyone finds what I’ve found in the city that they call home–community, connection, and love.
All the pieces
art & photography
