Solace at the lake house
There was a period in my life—during a demanding, stressful, and rewarding stretch of my career—when I found solace at my lake house.
It was in northern Canada. Real winters. Heavy snow. Beautiful summers. Four full seasons. And along the way, it taught me things that surprised me.
The house was well out of town, down a long dirt road. In the winter, there were only two full-time residents nearby—plus me. Three of us in total. Coming from southern California and larger cities in Canada, the sensory overload I was used to was suddenly gone. Replaced by something else entirely.
The quiet.
A kind of quiet that’s almost deafening, if you know what I mean.
Life there required attention to basics that had always been handled for me elsewhere. Heat, for example. Electricity helped, but the main source was a wood fireplace. That meant ordering wood, cutting it, chopping it myself. Groceries weren’t something you ordered or picked up casually—they were a planned trip into town. Takeout simply didn’t exist.
Then there was the land. An acre of it. Lawns, the dock, general upkeep. In winter, snowplowing was entirely on me. There were no city plows coming down that road. I got stuck more than once, snowed in, learning the hard way what isolation really means.
I think I underestimated that part. But I also came to cherish it.
Looking back, it was a highlight of my life—arriving exactly when I needed it most. It wasn’t convenient. But it was deeply rewarding in a very basic way: looking after yourself, looking after your land.
And nature gave back. Wildlife. The ability to take a boat out on the lake and fish. The smell of pine. Total darkness at night—no ambient glow—just stars overhead. Even now, when things feel heavy, I go back to that place in my mind.
One of the biggest lessons was this: your life can be full just by surviving well. By taking care of the basics, your days fill themselves.
It made me reflect on how “busy” I was in more metropolitan places. Was I truly busy—or was I just entertaining noise? Texts. Emails. Errands. Shopping. Malls. Constant movement. There’s substance in some of that, sure—but a lot of it can drift into falsehood.
At the lake house, I didn’t need a vacation. I was already at peace.
Not because it was easy—there was no Uber Eats, no convenience. If two feet of snow fell, I was outside shoveling and plowing. Action was required. Responsibility was constant. And that balance mattered.
The real takeaway, in hindsight, is this: no matter where you are, you can create that kind of solace. Those moments of stillness. Often, we’re the ones letting the noise in. And we’re also the only ones who can decide when to let it go.
