Rebel Talk: Empty Room

It hit me again this week.

I wasn’t on a sandy beach somewhere. No piña coladas with tiny umbrellas, no ocean breeze. Just a short trip—couple hours from home—to a hotel in Rochester, Minnesota. I was there for a full-on, three-day health screening at Mayo Clinic. Not glamorous. Not relaxing. But something about the whole experience still felt... different.

Part of it was her.

My girlfriend came down to stay with me. We didn’t do anything big or wild—just shared meals, little laughs, late-night chats. She was nearby, and that was enough. It made those days feel soft and settled. Like home had followed me.

Then that last morning came. She packed up and drove back while I wrapped up my final tests.

I walked back into the hotel room.

Same space. Same stale air. Same view of the parking lot through half-closed curtains.

But something had gone missing.

That shift? That ache in the chest? Not new.

I didn’t even take off my shoes. Just dropped onto the bed and sat with it—that empty hush. Not sadness, not really. Something older. Deeper. Like a silence you recognize in your bones.

You know what I’m talking about?

That hollow mood after a weekend with family ends and everyone scatters.

That strange stillness after a night of loud laughter and shared dessert and people you love walking back out your door.

That heavy quiet after the fireworks end and the crowds disappear and suddenly there’s nothing left but wrappers and stars.

It’s a very specific kind of stillness, right?

Like joy leaves behind a soft echo... and that echo lingers in the quiet.

I remember feeling it as a kid.

After vacations with family. After sleepovers where the world felt endless. After long summer nights when the sky was still orange at 9 p.m.

It’s not that something bad happened. It’s just that something beautiful ended. A tiny chapter closed. Something real had left the room.

And the older I get, the more I realize—feeling that is a gift.

Because that ache? That little hollowness?
It means you were there. Really there.
It means you paid attention.
It means you loved.

A lot of people never feel it. Some never let themselves.

They build walls so high, nothing touches them. No laughter, no closeness, no ache. No echo.

But that emptiness? It’s the shadow of something real. It’s proof you were open. Proof you cared.

So ask yourself something:
When’s the last time you felt it?
Have you felt it?

Are you living in a way that makes the end of a moment feel like something worth missing?

Are you letting people in deeply enough that their absence changes the air in the room?

Are you chasing memories big enough to echo when they’re over?

Don’t avoid the ache. Don’t run from the hush.

Let it wash over you.

Because it means you’re alive.
Because it means something wonderful just happened.
Because it means love walked through the room—and now there’s space where it stood.

So next time it hits? Smile a little.
Whisper to yourself: That must’ve mattered.

Because it did.

And so do you.

Maybe I'm a little weird, and maybe I'm the only one who feels this. But I do, and it's real, and I have since I was a little boy.  Do you know what I'm talking about? Or am I the only one.

Stay Relentless,

Ryan