There’s something about the words “craft beer” that always makes me smile. I don’t even drink anymore, but every time I see those words, there’s this automatic flicker of joy—like some long-lost part of me is saying, “Hey, I’m still here.” It’s such a weird reaction, but it feels good, so I’ve been trying to pinpoint the exact memory that makes craft beer a source of joy for me.
I've been doing that a lot lately - tracing the roots of my emotional reactions, asking myself why certain things still make me feel a certain way. Not the surface stuff, but the deep, forgotten connections to parts of me I might’ve buried over time. Craft beer, for example, isn’t really about craft beer. It’s about something else, some version of me tied up in those words, in that time of my life, in the people who were there.
In 2008 or 2009, I went through this little phase where my friends Ronald and J were introducing me to beer—like really introducing me to it. Not just “here, have this,” but “let me show you how to appreciate this.” I remember these bits and pieces of us sitting at different tables in different restaurants, or even once I think at someone's house. One restaurant in particular, I sat with J (or was it Ron?) while he recommended beers I might like There was this strawberry-flavored craft beer I fell in love with. Started with an L. I feel like it was German. I think it was Ronald (or was it J?) who introduced me to that one, but honestly, those memories have blurred together into something more like a vibe than a clear story.
What’s funny is, I can’t remember every detail, but I remember how it felt. It felt light, simple, connected. It felt like me. And that’s what hits me now when I see the words “craft beer”—not the beer itself, but that girl sitting at the table with her friends, learning about flavors, laughing at whatever random thing we thought was funny that day, just... being.
But here’s the thing: those friends, those memories—they aren’t just connections I’ve lost. They feel like parts of me I loved but can’t quite hold onto anymore. Losing Ron isn’t just about missing him; it’s about missing the version of me that only he knew. Ron saw parts of me I’ve probably forgotten, and now that he’s gone, those parts feel gone too.
There’s a finality to death I never fully anticipated: when someone transitions from time into eternity, they take pieces of us with them, wrapped securely in their own memories. The Rib I was with Ron—her laughter, her quirks, her rhythms—is, in many ways, gone.
J’s still here, but time has changed our friendship in the way time tends to do. He shared moments with me that don’t exist anywhere else but in the cracks of my memory. And without him or Ron to help carry those stories, those moments risk fading entirely.
That doesn't scare me. Death has never scared me. But this realization adds weight to my remaining relationships, and the moments I have the privilege of creating with my friends and family.
So, it’s not just about the craft beer. The Craft Beer represents a larger truth. I’ve realized this about so many things lately. Like this old friend, Josh. I saw his name pop up on my feed last year and thought, Oh, I should reconnect—introduce myself, maybe mention we went to college together. But when I opened our DMs, there was this whole history—messages from years ago when we were close. Like, really close. The kind of close where I’d joke about laying my head in his lap and letting him braid my hair, which is... pretty intimate for me to say to someone. We never dated - it wasn't that kinda vibe. But what we did have, I had no memory of that version of us. Still, I remember this feeling of fondness hopping up when I saw his name that day. Something had endeared him to me. I just don't remember what that something was.
It’s so strange, the way parts of ourselves can get lost like that. Life moves, things happen, and somehow, you just keep going without noticing what you’ve left behind. But now, I’m noticing.
My desk faces a wall I’ve dubbed my Detroit Wall. It’s filling up with pictures of things that make me proud to be a Detroiter—Fluent holding his two Emmys for Detroit Shows Up, Teduardo absolutely shredding on guitar in his BBC shirt, and a pair of photos, 15 years apart, of me with two former bandmates.
In the first photo, the guys each have beers in hand, and I’m in the middle, just... being there. In the second, taken years later, they have ditched the beers, and I’m holding a bottle of water. Same people, same dynamic, but somehow completely different.
What’s strange is that when I look at that first photo, I don’t even recognize the girl standing there. Not fully. Isn’t that peculiar? By the spring of 2023, I remember thinking that Rib Stone—who I was back then—felt more like a story I’d heard about someone else than my own lived experience. It’s as though the person I was before exists in a distant, blurry corner of my mind, someone I can’t fully relate to anymore.
Tracing these emotions feels like trying to reclaim pieces of myself. Not to go back—I don’t want to erase who I am now—but to add depth, to remember the parts of me I’ve forgotten. There’s something powerful about being able to sit with those memories and let them tell me who I was, who I am, and maybe even who I could still be.
Craft beer isn’t just about craft beer. It’s about the joy of who I was, the warmth of those connections, and the parts of me I refuse to lose.
Comments