I’m on day 3 of beach week with family. There are nearly 40 people here for this. Each family unit has a separate place on the same island but we come together for meals at night. On my mind is how children all grow up so differently. The contrast is always there, but somehow sharper against the backdrop of other children's easy laughter. While kids half his age race around with boogie boards, my autistic sixteen-year-old finds different treasures in the sand. We've learned to seek the quiet hours—sunrise and sunset—when the beach belongs to us and the rhythm feels more like breathing than performing.
This is for all the parents who know that some of the most profound connections happen in silence.
Different Tides
The ocean doesn't ask the waves to be the same— some crash loud and frothy, others whisper secrets to the shore.
At sunrise, before the world wakes up wanting, we walk the empty sand. Your silence more honest than all their chatter, your presence more real than their performance of joy.
Children half your age race past with boogie boards, their laughter sharp as seagull cries, while you study the way light catches in tidal pools, the architecture of shells, the patient scuttle of crabs who know something about moving sideways through the world.
They see the ocean as playground. You see it as sanctuary.
In the evening, when the sun bleeds orange into water, we return to our quiet ritual— two souls who understand that not all communication needs sound, that presence is its own language, that some of the most beautiful things happen in the spaces between words.
The waves keep coming, each one different, each one perfect in its own way of touching the earth.
☕ This version of my newsletter will always be freely available with no paywall. If these resources and reflections on balancing career with caregiving have been valuable to you, you can support my continued work by buying me a coffee. Each cup helps create more content for our community of work-from-home parents.