Where I Thought I Didn’t Belong
I’ve always been a bit of a loner. Not by choice, really, but by circumstance. I’ve spent years walking between worlds Chicano (Mexican, American), Veteran, Loner, too much for one place and not enough for another. For much of my life, the wild felt like it wasn’t meant for someone who looked like me. Brown, Urban, and Broken, people like me don’t grow up seeing ourselves in natural spaces like this. So, I felt like I wasn’t supposed to be here: not floating on this river, not in this community, not paddling between cliffs that looked like something out of a nature documentary.
I grew up brown in a world that didn’t always understand people like me, so I learned to keep my head down. After the military, that isolation only deepened. I became the quiet one in the back of the classroom. The one who never quite fit in, too military for the civilians, too brown or not brown enough for the homies, and too diverse to feel at ease in wild places like these. Because somewhere between the uniform, the trauma, and the silence, I forgot who I was. Feeling alone in rooms full of people.
So, for this trip, I was just hoping for some quiet time in my head. Maybe a moment when I didn’t have to pretend or do any homework, a time to truly disconnect. I definitely wasn’t looking for social connections, and I was not going to the Deschutes River in Oregon to look for answers. I was going to escape the chaos of my everyday life.
So, I traveled to the Deschutes River carrying a lot more than a dry bag and paddle. I brought years of silence. Years of feeling like a ghost in my own community. Not only as a Chicano, but as a Combat Veteran, a person who’s been through war to come home feeling like I never really returned with no purpose. I had no idea where I belonged.
The River Saw Me
I couldn’t shake the thought of how I don’t see people who look like me out here. Not on rivers. Not in kayaks. Not under the stars with gear and dry bags, and paddles in their hands. But as I floated downstream, something about the land started to change me inside. With the cliffs rising above me like ancient guardians, the way the sunlight hits the canyon walls makes them glow like they’re alive. The beauty of the landscape was unreal. At first, I just admired the jagged cliffs, with the rocks echoing across the water, as the Osprey circled high and swooped down on the fish.
After a while, I realized something bigger…this land sees me. Not the broken version of me, the brown boy from the city who didn’t speak Spanish due to generational fears of oppression, not the outcast or the soldier or someone who dreamed of wild places but never thought he belonged in them. But the land saw the real me, the full version, the US Army Combat Veteran who was brown and proud, a culture-carrying man I’d tried for so long to quiet down to fit in. Not just the guy with stories he never tells and words that are never spoken. Because out there in the wild, the canyon didn’t care about the societal values that had weighed me down.
The river did not ask for explanations; it just flowed wildly and untamed. The water doesn’t care who you are or where you come from; it just goes with the flow. And in that movement, it brought out something in me that I hadn’t heard in years. And for the first time in a long time, I listened.
From Silence & Quiet Hearts to a Sense of Belonging
In the silence of the night, as the moonlight was crackling low across the landscape, stars laid out like bedtime stories, and beside me, someone who listened without judgement. We lay in darkness, tent to tent, just listening to the river's current whisper. No pressure. No agenda. Just presence. What started as shared memories slowly shifted into shared truths. A late-night conversation under the stars turned into a connection. Not just with others, but with the part of myself I buried long ago to survive. And in that stillness, something deteriorated. I stopped feeling like an outsider. I stopped apologizing for being here. And I started remembering my people belong to the land too. We’ve always had stories in our blood, songs in our hearts, and prayers that were whispered into the wind. I didn’t say it out loud that night, but inside I knew:
I am a proud Chicano. I am a Soldier and an Aztec Warrior. And I am still here even if I don’t know where here is.
Rediscovering Identity in the Wild
The river didn’t just carry me downstream; it carried me home. It reminded me that my identity is not something to hide, but something to honor. My ancestral roots go deeper than any trauma. They go back to ancestors who faced oppression and survived, by praying to the land and listening to the wind when it answered.
The Deschutes River showed me that the Earth remembers, even when we ourselves forget. Now, when I look in the mirror, I see the truth, the battle scars, the never-healing wounds of memories, but I also know the fire. The culture. The strength. I see that I’m not alone. I never was. And that solicitude I felt under the stars? It didn’t fix me. But it reminded me I’m worthy of being seen, exactly as I am.
Not Just Floating Through
For the first time in a long time, I felt like myself again. The journey didn’t erase my loneliness, but it rewrote it. Reminding me that the land doesn’t need us to fit in. It only asks us to show up with two eyes open (Two-Eyed Seeing) and with an honest heart. It didn’t fix me. But it taught me the unshakable bond we have to the land, and our stories can guide us through even the roughest waters. Roots run deep, and when we share our stories, we weave ourselves back into the healing fabric of community.
“You can’t protect what you don’t value. And you can’t value what you don’t know.” (Kimmerer)
This opportunity changed how I see the land. It’s no longer just a backdrop for adventure. It’s a living presence, a witness to our pain, our laughter, our healing. It cradled me in its silence, challenged me with its rapids flipping me into the waves, and reminded me that life, like a river, keeps flowing, whether you’re ready or not. And somewhere in that flow, I remembered how to feel again. The river taught me that presence is a kind of power. And when I stopped gripping so tightly, I started living more freely. And for the first time in a long time, I felt like I was exactly where I needed to be.
River of Recovery
The Deschutes River taught me that the outdoors doesn’t belong to one kind of person. It belongs to all of us. I saw the land, and for the first time, I knew it saw me too not as a guest—but as Kin (family). In the wild, I found peace. I found a connection that didn’t need to be explained. The Deschutes didn’t just carry me downstream. It carried me home to a version of myself I thought I’d lost long ago. So, to every loner, every warrior, every soul searching for a place to breathe. Let your story flow. Let your roots grow. And remember, sometimes the path to yourself drifts through places you would never have thought you belonged.
“Gina ’waadluxan gud ad kwaagid” (Everything depends on everything else) - Haida
🙏 Special Shout-out
Thank you for creating an Eco-Therapy space, not just on the river, but in our hearts.
🛶 You gave me more than a paddle and a PFD (personal floatation device). You gave me the chance to breathe, to belong, and to begin again. To be seen not just as a veteran, but as a human being rediscovering his roots, his voice, and his place in the wild. To the staff, guides, and fellow paddlers, your presence changed lives, mine included. From the cold splash of rapids to late-night talks under the stars... You reminded me that healing flows best within a community.
This wasn’t just a trip. This was a homecoming. This was resilience in motion.
Let it go. Let it flow. Let it heal.
📣 Want to learn more?
Support healing spaces for veterans and help protect places like the Deschutes River. Visit https://www.sierraclub.org/military-outdoors
