It is true that we learned our trade because there were no better offers but we learned it in the magic heaped on the hills of San Francisco. And you know what it is? It’s a golden handcuff with the key thrown away. Ask anyone about San Francisco and the odds are that he’ll tell you about himself and his eyes will be warm and inward – remembering.
John Steinbeck, Pictorial Living supplement in the 11/23/58 edition of San Francisco Examiner
Here’s the thing about standing on Baker Beach on Christmas Eve, watching that rust-colored monument to American engineering glow against the black nothing of the Pacific: it’s the most beautiful prison you’ll ever see, and you know it because you built this cell yourself.
You did it. You climbed the mountain, crossed every finish line they drew in the sand, collected the wins and the checks and the validation. And now you’re out here in the cold while everyone else is home unwrapping something, drinking something, pretending something matters. You should be celebrating. You are celebrating, just not the way anyone would expect. Not with champagne and congratulations, but with cold sand between your toes and that hollow feeling that success gives you when you finally stop running long enough to look at it.
The bridge hangs there like some art deco dream, all those lights strung up like they’re celebrating something, connection, triumph, the basic human need to get from one godforsaken point to another. And you’re standing there wondering when crossing over became settling in. When the golden handcuffs went from trophy to trap.
Because that’s what Christmas Eve does when you’re alone with your thoughts and a monument, it makes you examine the architecture of your life. You came here for something. You got it. And now you’re staring at infrastructure like it’s going to tell you what comes next, what the hell you’re supposed to do with a victory that feels like it’s missing a piece.
The lights shimmer on the water, all that reflected glory making the bay look like it’s full of broken stars. And maybe that’s the point, you can be brilliant and successful and still feel fractured, still need to change direction. The bridge doesn’t judge your crisis. It just sits there, massive and indifferent, reminding you that every crossing requires leaving something behind.
There’s a fog rolling in, there’s always fog, and soon those lights will be nothing but halos in the mist. But right now, in this moment before everything dissolves, you can see it clearly: the beautiful trap, the golden weight, the need to build something different even if you don’t know what yet. Even if walking away from this much light feels like stepping into darkness.