Dear Wanda and Wayne,

Six summers ago, I came to Alaska for a seasonal tourism job. After my second summer, I never left. I’m 26 now, and it’s August again, so almost everyone I work with is talking about where they’re headed next — another tourism job, another adventure, another country — I quietly signed another year on my apartment lease. This is home now. I love Alaska, the mountains and the midnight sun, and I always look forward to seeing the wild little family that shows up in spring from every corner of the country and the world.

Every summer starts the same. Familiar faces mixed with new ones. By mid-May we’re hiking after work, chasing live music in Hope and Talkeetna, kayaking in Seward, and staying up way too late around bonfires below Kincaid Park feeling like life couldn’t possibly get any better.

I’m the one people ask where to hike, where to eat and where to find housing (one usually becomes a roommate at my place). I organize adventures, give airport rides, lend out camping gear and occasionally have someone crashing on my couch, too. I genuinely love being that person. But then August arrives.

The conversations shift. Someone’s headed to Colorado to work a resort for ski season. Someone else is flying home to Germany. Couples get ready for road trips. Airport hugs become more frequent. Everyone promises to stay in touch, and for a little while they do. Then the group chats slowly die.

The hardest part isn’t even watching everyone leave. It’s realizing they all seem to leave with someone or something waiting for them. A partner back home. Another new exotic destination to work or play. Another chapter in an endless book of travel. And I always leave summer as the good friend to most of them.

I’ve had a few summer flings, but they always come with an expiration date and something like “If I wasn’t leaving …” or “I don’t want anything serious.” After a few times of going through that, I stopped hoping the next one would be different and I know exactly what I’m getting into or avoiding.

Meanwhile, the few summer friends who eventually stayed in Alaska like me have also moved on. They found careers, got married and built year-round lives. Every fall I go back to waiting tables, house-sitting and dog-sitting until the next wave of seasonal workers arrives and life feels exciting again.

Lately I’ve started wondering if I’m actually building a life here or just living in an emotional and seasonal Groundhog Day. Sometimes I’m just afraid I’ve spent four years becoming everyone’s favorite Alaska memory while never really creating a year-round life of my own here.

Wayne says:

Now this is a funky situationship: You’re not dating hot guys or girls, you’re dating summer! And in Alaska, summer sizzles, but fall too hard and it will burn you, then disappear into darkness.

You’ve spent six years getting really good at emotionally investing in people who you know are going to leave. That’s not a fatal flaw, but it is a pattern that sends you spiraling. It’s also one of the reasons everyone gravitates to you, beyond your local status and shed full of loaner camping gear and kayaks. You’re generous, adventurous and the Alaska ambassador everyone texts when they need something or think they’re lost.

But it’s tough building permanent relationships in a temporary world. Every spring brings new co-workers, personalities and possibilities. Every fall brings tearful goodbyes and promises to keep in touch. That’s the rhythm of seasonal work, and it’s perfect for people who love it and live it to the max. For someone anchored down like you, though, of course you’ll feel disappointed, depressed or heartbroken with the silent arrival of every fall.

Meeting good people isn’t your problem, and neither is enjoying summer friends and fun. But this offseason, invest that same energy into people who’ll still be around in February. Reconnect with those old summer co-workers who stayed and got boring office jobs. Say yes when someone invites you over for chili or a reality TV binge. Heck, you’re a server — join your brethren and become a regular somewhere! That’s a super easy way to meet interesting people. Just start building a life that doesn’t require a fresh batch of friends to pop up every May for you to feel full.

Because I don’t think you’re looking for another unforgettable summer. I think you’re finally ready for an unforgettable life.

Wanda says:

Summer is only three-ish months of the year, yet you’ve built an enormous emotional life around a season that, by definition, is temporary. No wonder autumn feels like the floor falls out along with the leaves!

The answer is not to stop loving summer. Clearly, you worship it and crave the seasonal community, adventure and memories. But ask yourself: Why are you so much more invested in making those three months extraordinary than you are in building a life you enjoy the rest of the year?

There’s also something here that feels a little like suspended adolescence. There’s a wonderful period of young adulthood when life can be about adventure, seasonal jobs, roommates, new friends, cheap flights, summer romances and figuring out where you might go next. You’ve gotten very good at that life. But it might be time to ask whether you’re ready for the next chapter.

That doesn’t mean getting married, buying a house and becoming boring. It means deciding what you want your adult life to actually look like. A career you care about? A relationship that has a chance of lasting? Friends who know you in February, not just July? A community that isn’t replaced every spring?

Because what you’re doing now sounds less like a year-round life you love and more like a long-term intermission you tolerate to simply enjoy a short film. You haven’t wasted six years. You’ve learned that you love Alaska, adventure and bringing people together. Now take everything you’ve learned and build something more permanent with it. You don’t have to give up the bonfires and kayaking. You just need a life that doesn’t depend on them.

[Wayne and Wanda: I love living in Alaska, but family group chats leave me feeling resentful and lonely]

[Wayne and Wanda: Being dependable these days feels like I’m on a lonely one-way street]

[Wayne and Wanda: My wonderful husband’s focus on tasks leaves little room for fun and spontaneity]

[Wayne and Wanda: Memories of my ex are ruining my favorite summer stops and activities]