A Lost Summer, A Found Soul

The summer of 2020 was supposed to be perfect. Rachel Matthews had just turned seventeen, the world was wide open, and her plans were tightly packed — a road trip across California with her best friends, her first concert in Los Angeles, and late-night bonfires on the beach. But fate, with its silent hands, had other ideas.

The pandemic hit like a wave no one saw coming.

Suddenly, streets fell silent, borders closed, and dreams folded into boxes labeled “someday.” Rachel’s world shrunk from the endless coastline to the four corners of her bedroom in a quiet suburb of Portland, Oregon. At first, she did what most teenagers did — endless scrolling, Netflix marathons, TikTok trends. But the stillness began to press on her chest. Loneliness is louder when the world goes quiet.

One June evening, as rain tapped on her window, Rachel noticed the old attic door half open. Her parents rarely mentioned the attic, filled with her late grandmother's things. Curiosity tugged her. She climbed up the creaky ladder, flashlight in hand, and began sifting through dust-covered boxes and faded memories.

She found a leather-bound journal labeled “Summer of ’63.” It was her grandmother Lillian’s. Rachel curled into an old rocking chair and opened it.

Page after page, she read a story of a 17-year-old girl — wide-eyed, stubborn, brave. Lillian had traveled across the South with her sketchpad, slept in hostels, and painted street corners and faces of strangers. She had no cellphone, no GPS, just the sun, maps, and her heart. Rachel read about Lillian's secret crush on a jazz musician in New Orleans and how she overcame a night alone in Alabama when her wallet was stolen.

By dawn, Rachel had tears on her cheeks. She had spent weeks mourning a summer she thought she lost — not realizing she had just discovered someone else's summer that never made it into photo albums but was stitched into the fabric of their soul.

Over the next few weeks, the attic became Rachel’s retreat. She wore her grandmother’s scarves, listened to old vinyl records, and began sketching — even though she never thought she could draw. Her first drawing was the view from the attic window. Then, the rocking chair. Then, Lillian, from an old photo taped in the journal.

Her mother noticed the change. “You look… happier,” she said one evening, as Rachel helped with dinner.

“I think I’m… learning who I am,” Rachel replied softly. “From someone I never got to meet.”

Rachel started sharing pieces of Lillian’s story on a blog she created “The Lost Summer Diaries.” To her surprise, others began writing back. Strangers from across the country shared their own stories of lost summers, missed weddings, forgotten adventures but also the small joys they had found: a first garden, a song written at midnight, a letter to an old friend.

By late July, one email stood out. It was from a man named Thomas Whitaker in New Orleans. He had read about Lillian and recognized her.

“She sketched me once, in Jackson Square,” he wrote. “I was 20. She gave me the drawing and told me I had ‘a jazz soul.’ I never forgot her.”

Rachel cried reading it.

She wrote back immediately, sharing more photos and stories. He replied with one of his own — a faded sketch of a young man with a trumpet, framed in his study for over fifty years. It was signed “Lillian M. – 1963.”

Rachel felt chills.

The summer she thought was stolen had quietly turned into a journey of connection — across generations, strangers, and her own heart. No beaches, no concerts. But something far more sacred.

On August 15, she published her final blog post for the summer.

This wasn’t the summer I planned. But maybe it was the summer I needed. Sometimes, we lose a season — but find a soul. I found mine. Thank you, Grandma.

She signed it “R.M.” and posted a drawing — one of herself, sitting in the attic window, holding her grandmother’s journal.

The post went viral.

Letters poured in from people of all ages — some who had lost loved ones, others who had found pieces of themselves in forgotten spaces. One woman wrote: “Your words helped me grieve my mother. I thought I’d buried her stories with her. Now I’m going to find them.”

Rachel learned something powerful: not every journey requires movement. Some require stillness. Not every summer is made of sunshine and saltwater. Some are made of dust, memory, and rediscovery.

And so, the girl who mourned a lost summer ended it as someone else entirely — not broken, but built.

The attic is still there, quiet and warm. The journal sits on her desk. And every summer since, Rachel opens its pages — not to mourn what wasn’t, but to remember what was found.

Because some summers, though lost in the calendar, are forever written in the soul.

Moral of the Story:

Sometimes, the summers that don’t go as planned are the ones that shape who we become. In loss, we often find a deeper purpose, a rediscovery of love, and the strength to move forward — not despite the pain, but because of it.

💬 Your Turn:

Have you ever lived through a summer that wasn’t — a season that changed your life in unexpected ways?

Share your story in the comments or send this to someone who might need a little hope today. 💛