I sent a simple email to my neighbors. Just a courteous heads-up that I’d have a few friends visiting the farm overnight. In a rural stretch of Vermont, where each house is a good tractor’s ride away, it felt right to let them know about the extra car in my drive and the voices that might carry over the fields after dark. I expected maybe a polite “thanks for letting us know.” Instead, I got something I never saw coming: an appearance from my neighbor who brought over their lawnmower to mow a spot for me and my guests to gather.

I immediately went outside to thank them for their help, especially considering that I never asked them for this favor. Instead of simply thanking them, I invited them to join us. My neighbors wrote back almost immediately, delighted that I had company and said that yes, that they would be delighted to come over and gather with me and my friends.

In 2020, I moved out here to escape noise and neighbors, craving solitude. My career in public safety taught me to keep the world at arm’s length, and to chose my friends carefully. As I read their warm reply, I felt something soften in me. I realized that while I had briefly spoken with them, and we had helped each other from time to time, now, I wanted to actually know them.

Night fell gently, bringing a clear sky pricked with stars. We gathered in my backyard around a crackling campfire—me, my three close friends (Maddie, Luke, and Lucas), and the neighbors who had once been just distant porch lights at night. Flames danced in our eyes as we settled into easy conversation. It started with the usual introductions and small talk, but before long we were trading stories like old pals. Laughter came in waves, unexpected and freeing. Someone made a corny joke about people judging you by the stickers you have on your Subaru in Vermont, and we all just lost it. In that flickering amber glow, it didn’t matter that some of us had decades between our ages or entirely different life stories – we were simply humans together, faces warm and open, sharing the same moment.

There was an intimacy in that circle that I can’t quite put into words. Maybe it was the way the darkness beyond the fire made our little gathering feel like the only world that mattered. Or the way we passed around a bag of marshmallows and used graham crackers as makeshift plates for our sticky s’mores, not caring that crumbs were everywhere. At one point I leaned back, listening to the murmur of voices and the crackle of wood, and felt a quiet peace wash over me.

This was the kind of night I used to dream about when I was younger – the kind where you look around at the glow on everyone’s faces and realize you’re home. Not just at a place, but with people. With family and friends you chose. My wife Amelia often jokes that I collect people like stray cats—taking in those who need a warm place. Watching my neighbors and friends telling jokes as if they’d always known each other, I understood exactly what she meant. My little farm, usually so silent, was alive with camaraderie. And I was completely at ease, content to just soak it in.

That night we stayed up far too late, nursing the last embers of the fire and our own reluctance to let the night end. Eventually, we drifted off to bed—my three friends making themselves at home across the living room bean bags and guest room, the neighbors wandering back to their house with promises to do this again soon. I crawled into bed smelling like smoke and smiling into the darkness. Outside, the Vermont night held its breath, as if savoring our laughter that still hung in the cooling air.

Dawn came softly, as I woke up to sunlight on my bed. I slipped out of bed quietly, leaving my friends still tangled in their dreams. Morning rituals have a special kind of holiness for me—the simple act of getting ready to go take photographs of a town event while the world is dewy and hushed. I sipped my morning tea on the porch, converse sneakers damp with dew, and watched mist off the field like a curtain on a new day. My mind replayed snatches of last night’s warmth, and I felt an immense swell of gratitude. These everyday moments—waking up under my own roof with friends snoring softly down the hall are the ones that anchor me.

But I had a commitment to keep. By 8 AM I was in my truck heading toward town, camera gear rattling on the passenger seat. The 4th Annual Strawberry Jam Fun Run was kicking off in Middletown Springs at the elementary school that morning , and I had volunteered to photograph it. When I arrived, the little schoolyard was already buzzing with the kind of cheerful chaos only a small-town event can have: kids with shoelaces untied chasing each other through the grass, parents pinning race numbers onto wiggling toddlers for the “fun run,” and the local fire department setting up orange cones along the 5K route. I felt that familiar comfort of community wrap around me as I raised my camera.

Through the lens of my Leica, I caught moments big and small. As the “GO!” sounded and the runners took off, I snapped away, preserving slices of joy and determination. The morning light was gentle on everyone’s faces, and I realized I was smiling behind my camera.

Photographing these events always reminds me that happiness isn’t a thunderous, grand thing; more often it’s a mosaic of small, sweet moments—like a young boy proudly showing off his new t-shirt, or a volunteer handing out cups of water with a “you got this” smile to every runner. By 11 AM, prizes had been handed out and folks were beginning to disperse, some drifting toward the Strawberry Festival that would follow. I packed up my gear, feeling refreshed.

I headed back home with dust on my converse sneakers and the scent of cut grass in the air. My friends were awake by then, lounging on the porch, ready for the days adventures in Rutland. They looked comfortable, as if my home was theirs too, and the sight filled me with a quiet pride. I’ve always wanted my home to be a gathering place not just for me, but for the people I care about.

We decided, on a whim, to make a day of it. The sun climbed higher and with it our adventurous spirits. Piling into my truck, the four of us set off for a little afternoon road trip. First stop was Five Guys in Rutland—nothing fancy, just burgers and fries, but it hit the spot. We crowded around a small table, still flushed from the previous evenings excitement, sharing ketchup and fries and laughing. There’s something about sharing greasy, delicious food with friends that makes you feel like kids again. I watched Maddie lick a stray smear of ketchup off her thumb and had to chuckle; it’s in those tiny, unguarded moments that you see someone’s pure joy.

After lunch I drove everyone I drove everyone over to Proctor, where Wilson Castle rises out of the green Vermont hills like something plucked from a fairy tale. It’s a real 19th-century estate with turrets, stained-glass windows and all, famously known as Vermont’s only real castle. I’d visited once about a year ago, but seeing my friends’ faces light up as we pulled in was like experiencing it anew. We wandered through grand rooms decked in old European antiques and dusty portraits, our footsteps echoing on hardwood floors that have seen over a century of life. Sunlight filtered through the colored glass, painting the walls in soft reds and blues. In one room, a guide was explaining the history—something about a radio pioneer and five generations of the family—but I’ll admit I barely listened. I was too busy watching Luke and Lucas pretending to be royalty in the dining room, and Maddie roaming the hallways as if she were the castle’s long-lost princess.

I felt a tug in my chest, a gentle ache of happiness tinged with nostalgia. I pulled out my camera and started capturing my friends in these playful moments.

As I clicked the shutter, I told them I would hold onto these pictures forever, so that someday when we’re all a bit older and our hair has more silver than shine, we can look back and remember how young we were when this friendship began. The words left my mouth without me overthinking them, and as soon as I said it, I saw their expressions soften. For a moment, we all just stood there in quiet agreement, gazing out at the rolling Vermont hills. In the background, an old oak swayed and a couple of birds flitted from turret to turret. Time felt mercifully slow.

We left the castle after wandering the halls, letting the staff know that we would soon return to schedule an overnight stay for purposes of photography. By then late afternoon was melting into evening. We made one last stop in Rutland before heading home: Chipotle for a quick dinner, because apparently climbing castle staircases works up an appetite for burritos. Conversation had gone lazy in the best way—that comfortable post-adventure silence where everyone’s just reliving their favorite parts of the day in their heads. Lucas mumbled something about this being the best day he’d had in a long time, and the murmured mm-hm of agreement from the others made me smile.

Back at the farm, evening fell soft and rose-gold. We kicked off our shoes and sat out by the porch as the last light faded behind the trees. The river down the hill was singing its usual twilight song, a gentle rush over rocks that has become the background music to my life here. There’s a particular peace that comes in these quiet hours, when the adventures are over and you’re left with the simplest, most profound contentment.

I looked at my friends, the three of them wrapped in a comfortable silence, and I realized that this—this right here—is what all the years of searching were for. The best moments in life are often these small ones, the in-between hours spent with people who truly see you. Not the big events, not the flashy milestones, but the small rituals and the easy togetherness: sharing moments that will be remembered, laughing over sticky s’mores, or watching dusk settle in companionable quiet.

In the growing dark, I felt past and present converge. I thought of the little girl I used to be—the one who longed for exactly this kind of belonging. She couldn’t have imagined the winding road that would lead here, or that at 45 she would be surrounded by a chosen family that makes her feel so understood and loved. But here I am. I have a wife who is my best friend, and my constant companion in life’s adventures. Amelia and I have the kind of love I used to dream about, and hardly believed could be real. I have real friends who accept every part of me—friends who don’t flinch at my stories, who cheer my weirdness, who show up with open hearts. I have a forever home where the river crosses through the land, a little Vermont farmhouse that I can always return to; a place that grounds me with its steady whisper: you belong here. All those quiet childhood wishes I once made—for love, for friendship, for a place to call home—this weekend, they all found their way into reality.

I sit here now, the happiest and most laid-back 45-year-old woman I could ever imagine being. If I listen closely, I can almost hear my younger self laughing with relief. I wish I could tell her that the loneliness won’t last forever, that one day she’ll have all the things she yearns for. In a way, maybe she knows—maybe she’s here with me in these moments, marveling at how far we’ve come.

This afternoon I am truly thankful. Thankful for Amelia’s steady love, for the likes of Maddie, Luke, and Lucas who’ve become the family of friends I once only dreamed of, and for my kind neighbors who proved that warmth can be found in the most unexpected places. They have all helped me become the happiest, most laid-back 45-year-old woman who ever lived. And under this perfect afternoon Vermont sky, with bees and deer tuning up in the fields, I can truly say I’ve never felt this happy or healthy before.