Restraint Collapse

 A New YorkTimes headline caught my attention: "End of day meltdowns are not just for kids: but there are ways to avoid them." I clicked immediately, recognizing myself after barely making it to 6pm on Friday before snapping at the dinner table and retreating to a dark room to binge-watch "Scandal."

The article discusses "after-school restraint collapse"—something any parent will instantly recognize from those afternoons when children arrived home emotionally spent from behaving throughout their school day. I remember many days when my kids needed snacks and an hour of quiet time before they could start homework or tell me about their day. If I rushed that process, I paid for it with sharp words and pent up frustration.

During those years of raising young children, I often faced my own nightly meltdowns. But it's been a while since I've experienced restraint collapse this intensely. Last week marked my first seven-day stretch at home in months, packed with work training, cleaning up after William's move, and supporting all three kids through major life transitions. Add three early morning workouts and oppressive heat, and the breakdown was inevitable.

My outburst—something along the lines of "You never listen to me! I'm not even important to this family!"—felt justified in the moment. I blamed the heat, menopause, early mornings, everything except my failure to recognize the warning signs. I should have listened to my body's cues and set boundaries much earlier. A nap, some quiet time, or simply saying no to one activity could have prevented the explosion.

The timing of the dinner table was particularly painful. These rare evenings when Rob and I are both home feel precious, with both of us managing constant demands on our time and energy. I don't want to fill this time with my personal restraint collapse. Perhaps I'll have mastered this balance of self-care and parenting by the time we have grandchildren. I certainly hope so—I don't want the grandkids putting me in timeout.

After years of helping others manage their emotions, I'm still learning to tend to my own with the same care and attention.

Never Say Never: A Lesson in Staying Open

Colorado nurtures a passionate subculture of hikers who "bag 14-ers"—translated for the uninitiated, this means they've summited peaks above 14,000 feet. Our state boasts 58 such giants, and dedicated climbers spend years collecting that coveted number. Prior to summer's arrival, I had conquered 12 of these mountains, most alongside my family, and I'd convinced myself my mountaineering days were behind me. A sticky hip joint and months without practice seemed to seal that verdict—I counted myself retired from high-altitude adventures.

Aden changed my mind with her proposal that we tackle La Plata —"the silver" -- named for the mining territory around its base. She assured me it was relatively easy (the word "relatively" doing heavy lifting) and sweetened the deal by suggesting we stay in a local hotel rather than endure the brutal 2:30 a.m. alarm and pre-dawn drive from home. "Hotel" and "sleep"—those magic words—dissolved my resistance like sugar in warm coffee.

We stirred at 4 a.m., reached the trailhead by 5, and began our ascent in darkness at 5:15. A half-moon hung like a comma against the star-punctured sky, but the rocky trail remained obscured beneath dense tree cover, making our headlamps essential. We climbed for an hour before the lamps became unnecessary, rewarded as sunrise painted the nearest peaks in watercolor washes of rose and gold. Moving with patience, we mounted the rocky switchbacks above tree line sooner than anticipated.

We encountered a father and teenage daughter resting on a ridge, their labored breathing visible in small puffs. Their jeans and tennis shoes betrayed their inexperience before the father confirmed it: "It's my first." Aden offered water and electrolytes, which they declined, but then I spotted the gun holstered outside his jeans. I ushered us forward, puzzled by what threat he imagined. Few souls populated these heights, and our only wildlife encounters involved pikas and soaring birds. I was grateful for his daughter's presence—if he was a single man with a gun, my internal threat level would have escalated.

Our next encounter proved more inspiring: an extraordinary woman from Texas who appeared to be in her forties. She was pursuing a week-long mountain pilgrimage and had conquered two 14-ers by Wednesday—La Plata marked her third. She scrambled through the boulder field, losing the trail's thread, so she waved us ahead. With Aden navigating, we left the Texan behind and I marveled at her achievement—nine 14-ers accomplished during just two weeks of vacation. Since I require five full days to recover from a single climb, I felt humbled.

The boulder fields tested our patience and the scree slopes demanded careful attention, but we emerged onto a wind-less summit beneath skies touched only by the faintest smoky haze. Fellow conquerors—including a trio of young musicians visiting from the Aspen Music Festival—snapped our photos. Most of us settled onto the rocky summit to savor snacks while our eyes wandered across the magnificent panorama stretching in every direction.

Astonished to find myself once again perched atop a mountain, I offered gratitude to both my daughter (inspiration) and my physical therapist (functioning hip and knee) that carried me here. I'm learning to never say never, to keep my dance card open for adventures I might too hastily dismiss. Sometimes the most unexpected journeys begin with someone else's invitation and our willingness to say yes despite our perceived limitations.

Finally, An Empty Suitcase!

Last night I finally unpacked my weathered blue overhead bag and ancient flowered toiletry case—the first time they'd seen the inside of a closet since July 12. The worn zippers and faded fabric tell stories of a whirlwind month that began with Rob, Aden, William and me hiking from Maroon Bells to Crested Butte through the wildflowers. Since that golden weekend, I've ricocheted between British Columbia's family gatherings, California's blazing pool decks, New York's relentless sidewalks (helping William launch his adult life), and finally Colorado's towering peaks where Aden and I conquered another fourteener. I haven't moved through the world with such velocity since my consulting days—before marriage, long before children—and the freedom tastes intoxicating.

The six scorching days in Clovis, shuttling teenage swimmers between hotel, pool, and restaurant, exceeded every expectation. I videotaped races and award ceremonies, recorded splits, and cheered until my voice cracked. Working alongside athletes I barely knew before, I felt relationships kindling in the chlorinated air—trust building one encouraging word at a time. Leaving my family just one day after our Canadian return to coach other wonderful kids was wrenching, especially with William's departure looming. Yet I needed to nurture this coaching path, to cultivate something sustaining for the approaching empty nest years.

After a frantic few days moving William from Boulder, we boarded our direct flight to LaGuardia with three bulging suitcases. Clear skies welcomed us to Brooklyn, where his loft bedroom and experienced roommates offered William the perfect launching pad. We split our days between acquiring necessities at the delightfully named "Amazing Savings" and wandering Manhattan's transformed landscape. Thirty years has elapsed since my last visit, and the city stretched endlessly across my vision—a glittering testament to human ambition, architectural audacity and the emotional strength to rebuild after 9/11.

Saturday brought ten miles of walking through Central Park's verdant paths, past the financial district's gleaming towers, into Hudson Yards where William's office will soon relocate. The reclaimed Highline carried us above the streets while voices in Spanish, Italian, Polish, and Yiddish wove a linguistic tapestry around us—English surprisingly rare among the international throngs. Sunday delivered gluten-free crepes and coffee before we ventured via Metro to Wall Street's canyon of commerce, Battery Park's harbor views, the memorials at the North and South Towers, and finally the best everything bagel I've tasted in decades at Modern Bread and Bakery.

Saying goodbye to William after Sunday dinner proved predictably devastating—tears soaking my pillow as I mourned this latest milestone in our family's evolution. Yet beneath the heartache pulses profound gratitude for these accumulated adventures, for the energy and courage to seize each opportunity. I can still recall being paralyzed by autoimmune illness, too anxious to drive, too overwhelmed to navigate a simple grocery store. This current freedom to move through the world—to chase summer across states and seasons—feels like grace beyond my wildest imagination. As the children conquer new territories I will have even more good reasons to explore and be amazed.

Full Circle Return to British Columbia

Today I settled into my familiar morning ritual—breakfast, coffee, and the "click" of online newspapers—for the first time in two and a half weeks. We spent a family week exploring Vancouver and Tofino, followed by a single day of domestic restoration (laundry, pool laps, gathering coaching gear) before I departed solo for a five-day swim meet in Clovis, California. During those weeks away, I consciously severed my news umbilical cord, scanning headlines on my phone without clicking a single story, focusing instead on the immediate texture of each day. My resting heart rate rewarded this digital detox, and my pre-sleep monkey mind finally quieted.

Our British Columbia adventure loosely followed our honeymoon playbook from twenty-six years ago. When Rob and I first visited Vancouver after our June wedding, gray skies shrouded the city and concealed the mountains rising dramatically across the water. This time, brilliant sunshine blessed every urban day, and we seized each golden opportunity.

From pedaling hotel bikes through the city and around Stanley Park's seawall to playing eighteen holes of pitch-and-putt golf, from lounging in sun-dappled parks to chalking pool cues in a Yaletown bar, our family of five savored every shared moment. On day three, we commandeered a rental car and drove aboard the ferry, playing cards shuffling rhythmically as we voyaged toward Nanaimo on Vancouver Island. The ferry delighted our children—their inaugural car ferry experience—while calm seas sparkled beneath our churn.

From Nanaimo, we wound toward Tofino on Vancouver Island's rainforested western edge. We lost our faithful sun shortly after a pit stop where the three of us braved a river swim outside Port Alberni. The turquoise water revealed every stone on the bottom as Aden, William, and I gasped through the shocking cold, stroking out to the deeper pool before retreating to shore. We changed at the rest stop with chattering teeth and ravenous appetites, perfectly primed for Tofino's promised burger dinner.

Partly clear afternoons blessed our next two days as we hiked Ucluelet's Lighthouse loop, kayaked from Tofino to Meares Island, and wandered the town hunting souvenirs and ice cream. The kayak expedition unveiled wildlife delights: a curious harbor seal surfacing near William's bow close enough for us to hear his breathing's gentle "chuff," two sea otters floating belly-up with paws skyward, four majestic bald eagles, countless orange starfish glowing beneath the surface, and ancient cedar giants that have witnessed a thousand years of coastal storms. The trip brought back vivid reminders of our honeymoon kayak through hundreds of purple starfish and clear jellyfish without a guide and against the tide - an apt metaphor for the journey since.

Rob's birthday graced our final Tofino day, celebrated with post-ride coffee after twenty-five miles cycling to the Rainforest loop and back. Aden crafted a chocolate cake in our "Eagle's Nest" rental kitchen while Rob and Daniel claimed an afternoon beer. Meanwhile, William, Aden, and I took a surf lessons at Cox Beach. The Pacific bit at fifty frigid degrees, but thick wetsuits cocooned our bodies—only my feet succumbed to the chill, undermining my wobbly attempts at balance.

William emerged as our crew's natural, earning delighted whoops from our young British instructor (he did practice earlier this summer in Bali!), while Aden and I managed several triumphant rides from both the whitewater and beyond the break. The sun made a brief, glorious appearance during our session, illuminating the wide beach and gentle swells that provided the perfect backdrop for our final waking hours together.

I'm contemplating my third tattoo after immersing myself in so much First Nations sea creature art—my first was a dolphin adapted from a Haida design discovered during our honeymoon. It would complete a beautiful circle, helping me remember the gifts accumulated across twenty-six years together and the remarkable family we've created.