Postgraduate Pura Vida: Discovering the Joy of Now in Costa Rica

How a spontaneous queer, group trip to Costa Rica unlocked the bliss within - shifting my focus from worrying about the future to fully immersing myself in the present

I've spent my whole life riddled with anxiety - from the unrelenting tapping of my leg in the kindergarten classroom, to the heart palpitations when driving on the highway, the power of my mind to ruminate, spiral, and over-intellectualize any perceived threat is actually quite impressive, had it not been so debilitating. My anxiety was pervasive, from school, where I strived for academic perfection yet struggled with ADHD to social life, where I often found myself ostracized and lonely. Yet my senior year of college was a whole new level of anticipatory anxiety. As my undergraduate experience was nearing its close, who would I be out of school - a failure? A lost soul to the cog of capitalism?

As an academic overachiever, I derived my validation from my picture-perfect grades and 4.0 GPA. The thought of life without those measurements of success was terrifying.I spent months spiraling, trying to solve the unknowns in my head - where would I work? What if I was too overwhelmed? Do I have to move out of LA? The internal dialogue of shame was exhausting, and I didn’t realize that intellectualizing provides solutions—it just made the anxiety worse.

After a year without panic attacks, I found myself unable to control my heart rate as graduation loomed nearer. The closer I got to the finish line, the more chaotic my mind became. My internal state felt akin to a repetitive loop of improbable doom.

To quiet my mind, I turned to TikTok. I stumbled upon a side of the platform I hadn’t seen before: #TravelTok. Creators on this side of TikTok had abandoned the 9-to-5 grind and opted to explore the world, sharing their adventures and cultural experiences with their followers.

That’s when I found Lexi, or @lovelylivingtravels. She was a free spirit with a freshly shaved head and an authentic smile that captivated me. She wasn’t like the typical influencer—there was something real about her. You could see the joy in her eyes as she immersed herself in cultures and experiences day after day, place and place. Whether she was lounging in a hammock with local cats or trekking through jungles with a group of girls, Lexi was truly living.

I realized that I didn’t just want to “exist”—I wanted to live, too. The idea of working a mundane job for the rest of my life no longer appealed to me. I needed to see the world first.

I am not a spontaneous person by any means. In many ways I can be rather inflexible and meticulous. Having a plan, a guided path forward is a form of solace for me. Despite my type A disposition, when Lexi announced a queer-group-trip to Costa Rica, I booked it-immediately. I would join 19 other queer women on the adventure of a lifetime. I knew a little Spanish—enough to get by in a first-grade classroom—but I had no idea how this trip would transform my life.

I didn’t know a single person going into this trip. The most contact I had with the 20 strangers I’d soon be spending my waking hours with was through whatsapp. The trip was organized by Plot Packers, a female-owned startup that planned everything except international flights, and man did they know how to create an itinerary. My type A loved the intricate details and was wooed by all the experiences I'd get to have, still not knowing, the most moving wasn’t even on the paper at all. Was it risky to travel with a company I didn’t know? Yes. Was it a risk to stay in hostels, not knowing any of the other participants? Yes. But was it a risk I was willing to take to live? Absolutely.

So Long, LA

I flew out of LAX, taking an Uber alone down the 101 freeway as Charli XCX’s Apple played in my ears, with the lyrics “the airport, the airport” ringing in tune. 

I lugged my oversized baggage between two thermals, unsure which held the Costa Rican departures. I could feel the tension in my body more than the soreness in my arms. I just wanted to remain #calm. But let’s be honest, that’s much easier said than done, especially when traveling to an unknown country, with unknown people, with unknown obstacles. 

Eventually I made it through the maze that is the airport and sat down, masked up, at my gate. A baby enjoyed playing with the tassel on my carry-on and I couldn’t help but smile. I don’t even like kids all that much. Within the next hour, I was messaging a fellow traveler who would be sharing a flight with me - Jasmine. I craned my neck looking for her, trying to match her instagram pictures to obscured faces at the gate. As awkward as it was trying  to spot each other, that moment would plant the seed for a deep friendship. Jasmin had just completed a long flight, yet she was eager to talk and share her life. We both had goals for the trip that didn’t quite pan out, and we’d laugh about it later. We talked and talked, even through the whole boarding process until we were inevitably sequestered toi our receptive seats, then we whatsapped until we lost cell service. 

By the time I arrived at our hostel in San José for $11 a night, I was completely blown away—not just by the amenities (the pool, swinging hammocks, communal kitchen), but by the people. It was 7 AM, and conversations swirled around the space in every language. This was a gathering place for adventurers who didn’t need five-star amenities to feel at home—they wanted to feel free.

I swayed in a hammock, back and forth, the sun glowing on my face, until a light drizzle began to fall. It was bliss, and the trip had barely started. I was the first to arrive, still waiting for the other 18 women, our group leader, and Lexi herself.I could have easily been having heart palpitations or panic attacks in this new environment, but not once did I feel that. Instead, I was filled with joy, wonder, and an eagerness to just be.

And if you know me—Jessie Cooper—this is not my usual state. But something in Costa Rica unlocked a primal calm within me. It wasn’t jet lag. It was pura vida.

Pura vida is more than just a saying in Costa Rica—it’s a way of life. It means “pure life,” but it embodies so much more: a relaxed, joyful way of living, where nature and community are at the heart of everything. Picture this: the warmth of the sun on your skin, the scent of the earth in the air, and the gentle sway of palm trees. It’s the opposite of the hustle and bustle we’re used to in the States. Here, everything moves at its own pace, and the feeling of tranquility is palpable.

Months later, I would have pura vida etched into my skin as a tattoo to remember this transformative trip.

Hello, Costa Rica!

At our welcome briefing, I introduced myself to the other women around the room. Now, for anyone who has struggled with social anxiety (me, always), this would be overwhelming. Social anxiety was so ingrained in me that my parents once put me in group therapy to work on my social skills. But at this moment, I wasn’t nervous—I was just excited to make new friends.

Two things stood out from that briefing: first, Lexi, our group leader, gave us all necklaces with an etched Earth—this would stay with me long after the necklace broke off my neck. Second, a few girls decided to start the trip by getting “iced” (yes, you can find Mike’s Hard Lemonade in Costa Rica). I knew from that moment that I was going to have the balance of sentimentality and silliness I crave in my life.

I arrived with what was undoubtedly the largest suitcase of the group—I’m a chronic overpacker—and tossed it into one of the dorms next to a bunk bed.

For dinner that night, we arrived at one of the most beautiful outdoor cafés, Jardin de Lolita, I had the best vegan potato dish of my life (yes, it was huge, and yes, I ate the whole thing) and washed it down with a delicious Moscow Mule and even more refashioning conversations.

Talking with people from all over the world, from Arizona to the Netherlands, It was incredible to meet women who embraced their queerness and were ready to experience what the present moment had to offer. After that dinner, I felt not just full from my meal, but full of gratitude for the first 12 hours in a new country. I could already feel a new version of myself beginning to blossom.

The Adventure Continues...

The order of everything blurs in my mind, but what I do know is there was a thread of blissfulness sewn throughout my trip to Costa Rica, through each city to every beach and every jungle overpass. It was in every corner of each town, from Monteverde's misty mountains to Jaco's rolling waves where I found a part of me that had been missing all my life—the part that was grounded, unwavering, and unworried.

The next day, we hopped on a bus to our first destination outside of San José: Manuel Antonio, a paradise of biodiversity, crystal-clear waters, and national parks. We stayed in a hostel that was tucked into the lush greenery, for lack of better words this was a glamorized, sprawling treehouse. After regaining our bearings, a majority of the twenty-something group meandered down to the beach. I’m not sure where we found a ball, or if it spontaneously appeared for the purpose of our group’s bonding, but we, like children on a playground, circled up and played a "get to know you" soccer game. The three boys - no more than 3 years younger, with the typical beach town body, and salt-soaked, swooping hair that I'd imagine many teenage girls would swoon over - slyly, yet respectfully asked to join. Their eagerness, which I suspect was rooted in hopes of something more than just soccer, unknowingly landed them in our group of queer women who were blissfully uninterested in whatever teenage beach romance they might have been plotting. Despite the unexpected mixing of company, the game proved to be enjoyable and spirited for everyone involved. Soon after, while most of the girls headed straight for the crashing waves, I elected to remain ashore to safeguard our belongings—my cautious nature still asserting itself in this new environment. I wouldn't want to portray the experience as immediate, unqualified bliss, yet I was genuinely delighting in the afternoon. The laughter echoing across the beach and the sun warming my shoulders hinted at the profound belonging I was only beginning to recognize—a quiet magic taking root beneath my lingering wariness.

The first few days were spent exploring the sights, wandering the streets, and practicing my Spanish—skills that would prove more valuable than I could've imagined. In the national park, we hiked to unknown destinations, trusting our trip leaders wouldn’t lead us astray. Surrounded by the sounds of monkeys and macaws, I produced more sweat than I ever thought I was capable of generating,I became my own human waterfall, rivaling the ones we'd come to see. We discovered pristine beaches that no Google image search could ever properly capture—their beauty refused to be flattened into pixels. While tide pooling, I found delicate starfish and even accidentally touched some poisonous fruit, but somehow, I didn't let it faze me. There's something about being immersed in nature's magnificence that puts small concerns into perspective—a lesson in proportion I'd carry beyond these shores.

I lunched alongside a three-foot lizard and walked paths where monkeys and sloths observed us with lazy curiosity. On my way out of the national forest, I spotted a pit viper—which until then I'd only known as a sunglasses brand. It was magical, this coexistence with creatures I'd previously seen only in documentaries, a reminder that we share this world rather than simply inhabit it.

That night, after adventures I can barely recall—Ubering to various bars and restaurants, indulging in local delicacies—disaster struck. Laura, who I'd grown close to, discovered her phone was missing, just days after losing her wallet. Something in me rose to the challenge; I was determined to retrieve it, even at 11 PM in an unfamiliar Costa Rican town. I called the Uber driver repeatedly, and in my broken attempt at Spanish, communicated, "Dejó el teléfono en el carro, ¿lo ve usted?" I expressed urgency while remaining composed, all while our guide Maria watched in amazement. Those few years of Spanish classes had never felt more useful as Laura's phone was returned within the hour. I felt on top of the world—not just for solving the problem, but for connecting and calming a friend’s nerves in a time of distress. She says I should be a therapist, that I am very grounded - a disposition in pure opposition to my usual internal state. I’ll take the compliment though! 

The next morning, we departed for our next destination, stopping at an alligator overpass before arriving in Jaco, surf city extraordinaire. Our hostel bordered the shoreline, complete with boogie boards, a slide, the best hostel bar, and fresh salads beyond imagination. My only gripe: laundry cost $12 per load, though given my newfound talent for perspiration, it was worth every colón. Jaco pulsed with energy—bars and clubs beckoned from every corner—but I've always been someone who needs her rest. Here was another lesson Costa Rica offered: the freedom to listen to your own rhythms even when surrounded by different ones.

While others eagerly signed up for surf lessons, I opted for a massage. And let me tell you, that $60 massage atop the hostel, with the rolling tides providing their own percussion, was pure transcendence. For those sixty minutes, all I could repeat in my mind was "Costaaa Ricaaaa"—my personal mantra signifying complete, unbridled joy. My mind, usually racing with thoughts and plans and worries, had gone beautifully, blissfully blank.

My intuition proved right again when our trip leader, Maria, broke her foot five minutes into her surf lesson. She and Lexi spent the next day and a half navigating a local beachside hospital, battling the language barrier while receiving somewhat dubious medical care, before Maria was sent back to Ireland to heal. Our first major obstacle had materialized, but as much as I'd miss Maria and despite not knowing what would happen next, I refused to let anxiety take over. This was perhaps the most surprising discovery—that I could acknowledge disruption without being consumed by it.

We packed ourselves, shoulder to shoulder, into the next nauseating bus ride up to the mountains of Monte Verde, the "green in the clouds." Lexi was exhausted, suddenly thrust into the role of trip leader, and we'd soon meet our new guide—a man, we discovered with collective shock when reading the briefing. "He?!" we all shouted, not worried exactly, but certainly not calm. A group of twenty-something gay girls in the Costa Rican forest with one man? What could go wrong? I tried to suspend judgment, and I'm glad I did, because sometimes what could go right, does.

Christian waited for us—a short, tanned, dark-haired guy I guessed to be in his late twenties—with the warmest smile imaginable. A Monte Verde native, he pointed out his mother's restaurant just north of our hostel. Our assumptions melted almost immediately as we got to know him. We missed Maria, certainly, and this was definitely a different dynamic, but there was something inherently safe about Christian, something joyful that radiated from him.

As rain cascaded down the surrounding mountains, none of us wanted to leave the sanctuary of our hostel. Sensing our mood, Christian ventured out in his red Jeep to gather ingredients for authentic Costa Rican punch—yes, the alcoholic kind. That evening, Kaya, who'd previously worked as a sous chef at a sushi restaurant, prepared a handmade sushi dinner with what ingredients we could find. It wasn't high-end, but it tasted of home in a town I'd never known, with people I'd only just met. In Monte Verde, I learned that family isn't always about blood—sometimes it's about who shows up with rum punch when you're rained in.

As the punch warmed our bloodstreams and the music grew louder, "Hot To Go" by Chappell Roan came on, and all of us gay girls naturally knew the choreography by heart. It took some convincing, but eventually Christian attempted the moves, unleashing a torrent of laughter that echoed through the hostel walls. It was one of those perfectly synchronous moments when joy comes not from what you're doing but from the shared experience of doing it together.

That night, my roommate Anastasia and I decided impulsively that I needed a haircut. Armed with dollar-store scissors, a Pinterest board, and blind optimism, she got to work. It was just the two of us sharing a room this time—no more eight-person dormitories—and we'd grown close, discussing relationships and life's complexities. At that point, much of my life felt unsettled, and Anastasia's outside perspective helped me see what elements I could no longer justify sacrificing, whether romantic, personal, or professional. That night, I gained not just a new haircut but a new perspective on what I truly deserved—sometimes it takes distance from your life to see it clearly.

Until this point, the trip had been relatively peaceful—beaches and hammocks providing the perfect backdrop for self-reflection. But today would challenge me differently: I'd be swinging 400 meters above the earth, suspended by nothing but two ropes.

As a three-year-old, I'd been fearless—riding my tricycle down stairs for fun and spending after-school hours bouncing and flipping on trampolines. But injuries and growing anxiety had gradually dimmed that adventurous spirit. Something about this adventure park, however, rekindled that dormant courage, and I thought, simply, "fuck it."

Megan, Maryse, and I headed to the park, joining some arguably cute French guys in the shuttle. After being harnessed up (easy for all us gays, we joked), we boarded a rickety trolley that transported us to the center of the sky, literally into the clouds. Megan's face flushed red, her knuckles white from gripping the handlebars. The two of them were attempting something even more daring—bungee jumping by their ankles. Yet there we all stood, on this trolley suspended in the open sky, the cool mist of clouds caressing our faces, about to push beyond our ordinary boundaries.

I volunteered to go first. Several carabiners secured me, my life literally hanging by two ropes held by laughing young men no older than myself. I wasn't exactly calm, but neither was I paralyzed by fear. With a GoPro strapped to my head and a nervous smile plastered across my face, I reached out for a high five. One of the men playfully tugged the rope, teasing me, but nothing mattered the moment I swung down and across the green abyss of Costa Rica. Below, the earth spread out like an impossibly vibrant painting—layers of emerald canopy punctuated by flashes of exotic flowers, all seeming almost artificially perfect from such height. I swung back and forth like a human pendulum, screaming "Costa Ricaaaa!"— once again my mantra of unabashed elatement—until a rope lowered to pull me back to the trolley. I hadn't just survived; I had lived, truly and completely, in that suspended moment.

But juxtaposed against this elation were moments of profound solemnity. One night, while others partied at a nearby bar, I lay alone in a hammock, listening to a playlist curated for existential contemplation. My head was in Costa Rica, but my heart remained tangled elsewhere. Parts of my life weren't where I'd hoped they would be, and I was assigning blame to situations that didn't deserve it. I was clinging to something that had fizzled into disinterest, something no longer wholly fulfilling.

Eventually, Jasmine and Maryse discovered me in my tear-stained hammock. With wisdom gained from their additional years, they talked me through my troubles, making me feel seen and understood. It couldn't all be sunshine and white sand beaches—this was a transformative time, and transformation rarely comes without pain. I hadn't come to Costa Rica to escape; the problems in my life wouldn't simply float away with the tide. I wanted to return with more than souvenirs—I wanted a plan, or at least the beginnings of one. I'd had important conversations before boarding that plane, and here, among strangers-turned-friends, I was finding answers alongside myself. Beyond the adventures and adrenaline, I'm eternally grateful for those unprompted, profound conversations with people who saw me purely as I was in that moment, unburdened by my past or future selves.

As the sun set, and rose, we found ourselves making our way through the depths of the rainforest near Rincon de la Vieja Volcano.  Our bus haphazardly navigated through unpaved roads and I'm not going to pretend I was in my most zen of states. I white-knuckled the handlebar, acutely aware of the absence of seatbelts as we bounced along the rugged terrain. My thoughts drifted to all the possible accidents that could befall us, my anxiety pulling me away from the present moment. But we arrived—safe, sound, and with a lesson already forming: I'd spent too much time searching for metaphorical seatbelts in life, when adventures often require us to loosen our grip on certainty and trust the path ahead. We must learn to embrace the bumpy ride.

After a quick welcome briefing and getting our wristbands (the universal symbol of "you're allowed to have fun here"), we were off to our first adventure. First stop: harness fitting. Picture a bunch of gays putting on harnesses—so unintentionally hilarious. The ironic imagery brought back my present moment appreciation, and I eagerly hopped on a tram up a long and windy hill. No seatbelts again, not even walls to the vehicle this time, but somehow my brain had decided this particular death trap was totally fine.

At the top of the first zipline, I eagerly volunteered to go first. I'd done ziplines before, but nothing could have prepared me for what came next. Careening over the lush green landscape of the Costa Rican jungle, the wind whipping through my hair, I took in every angle of this paradise. The perfectly blue sky stretched above me, dotted with clouds that looked like they'd been painted and placed with careful precision. The zipline seemed to go on forever, and I wasn't mad about it.

I landed with a smile plastered across my face and watched with pure joy as, one by one, my twenty new friends zipped in my direction. Their excitement radiated toward me like a contagion I was happy to catch. We tackled about eight ziplines throughout the course, each one bringing a fresh rush of adrenaline and that unmistakable feeling of freedom that comes when you're literally flying through the air with nothing but a harness and a cable between you and gravity.

As I soared through the sky, something shifted in me. With each zipline, I was letting go of more than just the platform—I was releasing the grip my anxiety had on my everyday life. Up there, suspended between earth and sky, I realized that sometimes the most beautiful views come after you take the scariest leaps. The jungle below wasn't just a backdrop; it was teaching me that life thrives in chaos, that beauty emerges from surrender, and that sometimes you just need to trust the cable and jump.

After mastering the realm of air and sky, the jungle beckoned me to experience its companion element—water—teaching me that life's journey requires both the freedom of flight and the surrender of flow, as I prepared for a ride that would carry me not through the air, but along the contours of the earth itself.

The Tobogan de la Jungla, or "Slide of the Jungle"—the longest jungle waterslide in all of South America at a whopping 420 meters (1,375 feet). This wasn't your manufactured Six Flags creation. The slide was painted a light green that somehow looked exactly like what would happen if Mother Nature decided to build a waterslide herself—moss-colored and nestled perfectly among the trees like it had grown there naturally.

We traded our zipline gear for new equipment, keeping our helmets but swapping harnesses for elbow pads made from old inner tubes—the same material we'd be sliding down on. The water rushed from a spout that seemed to require the Midas touch of our guide to activate. Unlike American waterparks with their chlorinated, temperature-controlled water, this slide was powered by an actual river flow, snaking through the natural rainforest.

Waiting in our super cute get-up (jokes—we looked ridiculous), I was practically jumping up and down with anticipation. We were warned to keep our arms in unless we wanted them scraped raw—hence the makeshift elbow padding that definitely wouldn't pass any safety inspection back home. I watched my friends disappear one by one, their thrilling screams of enjoyment filling the air and sending my excitement into overdrive.

When I stepped into the loading dock, a chill from the natural temperature of the rushing water washed over me, and just like that, I was off. The ride started deceptively laid back, the cool water lapping against my skin as I unhurriedly glided through the trees. But just as the momentary calm  lulled me into a sense of ease, the pace surged and I began careening down the curving path. Midway through, I nearly flew out of the slide before ducking through a tunnel carved directly through a tree trunk. My GoPro video caught me expressing some choice obscenities, but it was all in good fun—I was having the time of my life, enjoying every whiplashing moment. “Costaaa Ricccaaaa” I exclaimed, my mantra signaling the exhilarating joy and appreciation I felt in the present moment. The slide lasted longer than any roller coaster at an American amusement park—it just kept winding until I eventually splashed into the pool below, laughing and disoriented in the best possible way.

Just minutes after everyone finished sliding, thunder started to rumble and rain poured down. In another life (or earlier that same day), I might have seen this as the universe ruining our fun. Instead, it felt like a refresh button—nature's way of saying, "Here's a new perspective for you." That's what we have to do in life, right? Roll with the weather, both literal and metaphorical. The storms come, unexpected and uninvited, but they also wash away what we no longer need and nourish what's waiting to grow.

We spent the rainy afternoon learning about Costa Rican coffee production, and even enjoying some local liquor. The liquor tasted like straight ethanol, but getting to cheers "Arriba, Abajo, Al Centro, y Adentro!" with my newfound friends made it a tasteful experience nonetheless. My palette would do a 360 in just moments, when the first drop of costa rican coffee hit my tongue. The carefully crafted traditional method of brewing the regional delicacy with a chorreador—a wooden stand with a cloth filter—is known as "aguas de medias," which literally translates to "sock water." Trust me, it is infinitely more delectable than verbiage suggests.

I had never been a coffee person, but from that moment on, I was helplessly converted. For the rest of my trip, I had multiple cups, bought beans to bring back home, and even ordered more online when I ran out. What captivated me wasn't just the taste—it was learning about how coffee in Costa Rica is imbued with meaning and intricacy. The harvesting process maintains fairer work conditions and wages than many other coffee-producing regions.Coffee isn't just a drink here—it's part of the national identity.

As the day wound down, we ate starfruit plucked directly from trees while waiting to go horseback riding. Sore, tired, and ready to relax, we finally settled into the more soothing part of the day: unwinding in the natural hot springs. Carefully submerging ourselves in earth’s natural hot tub, I ordered a piña colada at the swim-up bar, the sweet coconut and tangy pineapple offering cool relief against the mineral-rich waters that enveloped my skin in healing warmth.

Nutrient-rich mud was laid out on a vanity-like rock, and we giggled as we painted each other with the soft silt. Our faces adorned with earth's ancient mask, we captured the moment in photographs, our smiles radiating genuine joy—a brightness that only intensified when we discovered a curious little boy had wandered into the frame, his eyes pleading silently for an invitation to our impromptu celebration of mud and friendship. Sitting in the billowing clouds of steam, I found myself opening up in conversations that would change how I saw life. I listened intently to everyone's stories, hungry for wisdom while trying not to dwell on all the unknowns waiting for me back home.

I'd just graduated, and my partner at the time was battling incurable cancer—a cruel reminder that nothing in my life followed a predictable script. But talking with these women who had such different lives—living and teaching in places I'd only seen on screen, embracing their femininity in ways I hadn't considered possible—showed me something important: you don't need everything mapped out. Life doesn't require a perfect plan, just the courage to follow what feels genuine. The tapestry of a meaningful life isn’t woven from perfect threads of certainty but rather from authentic moments of following your inner compass.

By the time I sank further into those volcanic waters, the day’s adventures had melted into my muscles and memories, becoming part of who I was and who I was becoming—someone who could white-knuckle a bus handle in the morning and float peacefully in mineral-rich waters by evening, grateful for both experiences equally.

The physical experiences - from zipping through the sky and rushing down waterslides were exhilarating, but it was the accompanying mental state that truly transformed me—the way my nervous system finally relaxed its constant vigilance, the way I could feel each step connecting my soul to the earth beneath. Each moment in Costa Rica polished away another layer of anxiety until I could feel the sun on my skin without wondering what might burn me next.

As our trip drew to a close, we returned to San Jose, where I was scheduled to depart the following day. But fate intervened—a Costa Rican Pride parade coincided with our final day. In an act of spontaneity I rarely permitted myself, a few of us decided to extend our trip by 48 hours, investing a few hundred dollars for what promised to be an experience of a lifetime. I said bittersweet goodbyes to those sticking to their original plans, feeling a part of myself leave with them, yet knowing that what I'd gained in Costa Rica would remain with me long after I left its shores.

We adorned ourselves in rainbow attire, faces glittering, even Christian joining our celebration, and set out to explore San Jose's streets, following the distant pulse of music. Hours passed with little luck beyond a few rainbow balloons, so we explored the city, grabbed some boba, and eventually found ourselves, improbably, in Burger King, where more goodbyes were exchanged. Tears and glitter streaked down Christian's face—a touching contrast to our initial wariness. In just days, he'd transformed from potential concern to protective older brother who had accompanied us to gay clubs, learned the "Hot To Go" dance, and now stood with us at Pride, celebrating and safeguarding our joy.

Stepping out of that unlikely farewell spot, we encountered a rainbow tide of humanity—upwards of 50,000 people flowing toward us, their collective souls dancing to a single rhythm. People on stilts, dogs in strollers, children and elderly hand-in-hand created a beautiful chaos of rebellion and celebration. Unlike Pride parades in the States, Costa Rica's had no commercial sponsorship or barricades; the people themselves were the parade, expanding as more joined from the sidewalks. We realized we hadn't been waiting to watch the parade—we were already part of it. We were the queer community. We were the parade.

The day progressed in dance and song, our bodies covered in glitter, surrounded by floating bubbles. The heat was scorching, but our joy burned brighter still. In those moments, I felt a profound unity—with myself, with this community, with the Pura Vida philosophy that had gradually reshaped my perspective throughout this journey.

On my final night, in the same hostel where I'd begun this adventure a week earlier, I found myself deep in conversation with a girl from Banff whom I'd never met before. The communal spirit that permeated Costa Rica—and this entire trip—allowed us to talk for hours about everything from profound passions to silly interests. Sipping coffee and savoring a final meal, I prepared for my last night in a hostel bunk bed before saying adios to this transformative place.

Life Moves On, Live Now

When I returned to LA, there was a noticeable glow about me, both inside and out. I could have worried about job applications and whether to move back to Chicago, but I didn't. I could have been consumed by grief that my relationship was ending, and while I felt that pain, I didn't allow it to define me. I could have forgotten everything I'd learned in those precious days, but I wouldn't permit that erasure. I would carry Costa Rica with me in every moment, because that's what it meant to truly live—to embody Pura Vida.

There is no time like the present. Because I wasn't sitting behind an office desk and rushing from one obligation to the next after graduation, I was able to transform my life in just a matter of days—to transform how I saw myself and my place on this fast-spinning earth—because I decided to stop rushing. There was no need to fast-forward and pave a path I wasn't ready for or couldn't yet envision.

All to say: Take the trip. Go on the adventure. Try the wild zipline and dance in the rain. Don't wait to make your dreams a reality. The present moment is the only one guaranteed—and it's waiting for you to fully inhabit it.