Saltwater in Our Souls

Our Summer starts here

There's a certain kind of rhythm our little family falls into every summer, the kind that smells like sunscreen and sea air, tastes like peach popsicles, and feels like bare feet on sun warmed sand. It's beach time, baby. And every year, without fail, we pack up the car with way too many snacks, not nearly enough towels, and all the excitement in the world.

This isn't just a trip for us. It's a tradition. A slow, sacred ritual of loading up on gas station boiled peanuts, arguing over the playlist (James swears he doesn't like beach country, but guess who's always singing along by day two?), and stopping halfway there to grab a bag of ice and a couple of those convenience store slushies that taste better with the windows down.

The beach itself well, she's always waiting. Same blue horizon. Same soft crash of waves. The kids run straight into the water like they never left it.

James and I set up camp under the umbrella, passing back and forth whatever book one of us brought and the other one inevitably steals. We dig our toes into the sand, watch the kids collect shells and saltwater memories, and breathe a little deeper than we have in months.

There's something healing about the water. It's a reset. A reminder that the best moments usually aren't flashy, they're found in the slow mornings, the long swims, the grilled suppers, and the way sun kissed kids fall asleep with sand still clinging to their hair.

We'll be here a while sandy, happy, and probably a little sunburnt. I'll still be posting, still cooking (you know I can't stay out of the kitchen for long, even if it's a beach rental with the squeakiest oven door in America), and maybe sharing a few recipes inspired by the sea.

So if you need me, I'll be where the tide meets the toes. And if you've got your own beach traditions, l'd love to hear about them.

Stay salty,

Hannah