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.

Among the Wildflowers

"You belong among the wildflowers
You belong in a boat out at sea
Sail away, kill off the hours
You belong somewhere you feel free."

-Tom Petty, Wildflowers, 1994

I paused for the small group threading down through exuberant wildflower clusters, my size 11 hiking boots balanced on the edge of the rusty red path. A young man in a baseball cap unexpectedly lifted his gaze when I offered my morning greeting, looking directly into my eyes with the kind of openness that feels rare these days. "Aren't the flowers amazing?" he asked, gesturing toward the explosion of color surrounding us.

Oh yes, I replied, the flowers are absolutely amazing. Wildflowers at peak season lined both sides of the trail from Maroon Bells to Crested Butte like nature's own processional carpet. Yellow daisies and gold sunflowers turned their faces toward the morning sun while vibrant purple-blue lupine swayed alongside orange and pink Indian paintbrush. Stalks of Queen Anne's lace punctuated the symphony of color, all dancing together in the early mountain breeze as we ascended the Maroon Bells approach.

We forded small creeks and two wider waterways, balancing on moss-slicked rocks or weathered deadwood with our hiking poles extended like tightrope walkers. After navigating each crossing, I turned and carefully tossed one pole at a time back to William and Aden, sighing with relief when either made the catch. The air felt surprisingly warm for these elevations, lingering in the 50s and 60s even near the pass's summit. We shuffled carefully up the rusty red dirt and mineral-stained rocks, pausing to catch our breath as other groups—who'd started their journey from Crested Butte—descended past us with tired but inevitably smiling faces.

The pass summit offered glorious panoramic views of the Rockies stretching toward every horizon, but its narrow, crowded perches buffeted by relentless wind sent us dropping quickly toward the downhill path and our destination. This side of the trail revealed even more spectacular beauty than we'd encountered before—delicate lilies and virtual bushes of columbines now joined the wildflower chorus. Blush pink and butter yellow columbines alternated with near-white versions, then gradually gave way to the more familiar purple-blue columbines as we descended into the valley.

We stopped to exclaim and capture photographs every five minutes, struggling to absorb the beauty that enveloped us so completely. Wildflower meadows climbed the mountainsides to our right and cascaded into the narrow river valley on our left, their collective perfume rising from the sun-warmed path until all our senses swelled like sponges. Gratitude swelled in my chest until tears came unbidden, accompanied by the happy percussion of birdsong from hidden bushes and butterflies dotting the clusters of blooms like living confetti.

The struggles of our fractured world fell away for six precious hours among friends and the generous beauty of the earth. Our conversations flowed as easily as the mountain streams we'd crossed, voices weaving together as we placed one foot in front of the other, trying not to stumble over rocks while our eyes wandered through the epic display of mountain flowers in their peak glory. We felt so fortunate to witness this spectacle, so acutely aware of our luck, that even after eleven miles of hiking, it hurt a bit to see the trail end.

Sometimes the most profound moments arrive without fanfare—just a shared recognition of beauty with a stranger, the rhythm of footsteps on ancient paths, and the reminder that wonder still exists in abundance for those willing to seek it.

Consider Your Safety Net

The influencer's glossy feed captured my attention —perfectly arranged coffee cups beside leather-bound journals, golden hour lighting streaming across handwritten notes about "traditional femininity" and the supposed tyranny of career ambitions. She said "women have been bullied by the Left into thinking we need both careers and families" and I kept scrolling as my algorithm selected posts that suggested college might be unnecessary, or beneficial solely for the "mrs" degree. According to this particular voice in the growing chorus, women would find more fulfillment, less pressure, if we simply "settled down" and embraced motherhood as our primary calling.

I stirred my own imperfectly made morning coffee, weighing my thoughts. The allure of simplicity pulses through these messages like a siren song—who among us hasn't fantasized about stepping off the relentless treadmill of modern expectations? Yet something about the conversation felt incomplete, like a melody missing its crucial bass notes.

Any human being deserves the fundamental right to chart their own course, and I harbor zero judgment toward the paths others choose. But as I've watched these "traditional femininity" influencers gain momentum, I find myself pondering the stories they don't tell, the questions they don't raise.

I had the opportunity to stay home with my children during their early years, and the experience proved both rewarding and utterly demanding—a far cry from the leisurely existence some voices suggest. Those days stretched long and shapeless, punctuated by tantrums and triumphs, endless laundry cycles and fleeting moments of transcendent connection. Paradoxically, returning to work often felt easier than navigating the emotional intensity and physical exhaustion of full-time motherhood. Without advantageous childcare options, I crafted a hybrid existence—volunteering at school, working part-time in roles that allowed me to be present when children needed me, carefully maintaining the threads of my professional identity even as they stretched thin.

When my youngest reached high school, I returned to full-time work, grateful I'd preserved those slender connections to my career. Yet I recognize the privilege woven throughout this narrative—a partner whose income supported our family, the luxury of choice itself.

Which brings me to the elephant lounging in the corner of every "traditional femininity" discussion: economic vulnerability. When we strip away the Instagram-worthy aesthetics and examine the practical implications, what happens to women who forgo education and career development? They become entirely dependent on their partners for financial survival—no Social Security contributions in their own names, no retirement savings, no credit history, no assets bearing their signatures.

Consider the statistics lurking beneath the surface of these glossy lifestyle choices. What becomes of the woman without education or career training when her partner dies unexpectedly, leaving behind inadequate life insurance? When divorce papers arrive, or when he simply vanishes one Tuesday morning? The answer whispers through the gloss of pretty promises: financial security.

My father's practical wisdom echoes through decades: "The best life insurance for our family is a well-educated, intelligent wife." My mother embodied this principle—college-educated, professionally trained as a teacher, intellectually curious and financially literate. She raised five children while maintaining her capability to support us if circumstances demanded. Our family enjoyed triple protection: Dad's steady income, his life insurance policy, and Mom's ability to step into the economic breach if disaster struck.

But many families lack such advantages. These days, hard work doesn't always translate to adequate savings or insurance policies. For woman raising children under economic duress, education and career skills don't represent feminist ideology or societal pressure—they offer survival.

I watch my daughter navigate these competing messages, weighing voices that promise simpler lives against the complex realities I've witnessed. The young mother whose husband died unexpectedly, struggling to raise three children on minimum wage. The wife discovering that her husband's gambling debts exceeded their assets, facing foreclosure with zero savings. The divorced woman in her fifties, competing against twenty-somethings for entry-level positions because she hasn't worked in decades.

Perhaps the most honest approach acknowledges both truths simultaneously. Yes, modern life places enormous pressure on women to excel in multiple arenas—the exhaustion is real, the juggling act genuinely difficult. And yes, some find deep satisfaction in dedicating themselves primarily to family life. But let's also recognize that education and career development offer something beyond cultural conformity or feminist dogma: they provide agency, options, and the economic foundation that makes other choices possible.

The Instagram influencer's aesthetic appeals to something genuine in our collective longing for simplicity, for clear roles and defined expectations. Yet I can't help wondering: what happens when the golden hour lighting fades, when the carefully curated life encounters the messy realities that visit us all? I would tell my daughter to make whatever decision calls to her heart, but to weave her safety net carefully. The future we can't yet see may depend on the choices we make today.

The Discipline of Daisies

"Justice requires us to remember: when any citizen denies his fellow, saying: 'His color is not mine or his beliefs are strange and different,' in that moment he betrays America." —Lyndon B. Johnson, 36th President of the United States

The meadowlarks called across Cherry Creek Reservoir as Aden and I pedaled through the morning quiet, our bike tires humming against asphalt still cool from the night. Golden sunflowers stood sentinel along the path, their bright heads tracking eastward like compass needles seeking magnetic north, and children laughed as they skipped in and out of the swim beach's gentle ripples. For the hundredth time, I found myself mesmerized by phototropism—that miraculous directional growth of plants toward light—a ritual that never fails to restore something essential in me.

Each spring, I fill the concrete planters on our breezeway with bright annuals, then spend the following months watching them dance in slow-motion as they orient to the changing sunlight. This year, orange daisies have become my teachers: the front pot's blooms crane straight leftward to capture dawn's first rays, while those tucked behind the house have stretched out and away on impossibly long stems, their faces twisted toward evening's last gleaming. Every time I pass their vibrant orange faces, they whisper the same urgent reminder: turn toward the light, speak only words that motivate and uplift.

Yet national events of recent weeks have rendered such acts of positivity nearly impossible. The weight of what we've witnessed—the betrayal of foundational principles, the casual cruelty masquerading as policy—sits heavy in my chest like stones I cannot dislodge. I don't feel much like celebrating this Fourth of July, though my love for this country burns as fiercely as summer sunlight.

On this Fourth we'll escape to the mountains, seeking solace in the quiet chill of alpine morning where robins wake the world with liquid songs and wildflowers unfurl their petals in defiant beauty. Perhaps we need to pretend, just for a day, that redemption remains as simple as turning toward the light and helping our neighbors do the same. Perhaps that pretending isn't naive optimism but essential practice—the daily discipline of choosing hope when despair feels more honest, of nurturing the small flames that might, collectively, illuminate our way forward.

The sunflowers don't debate their purpose or question whether their faithful tracking matters. They simply turn, again and again, toward whatever light they can find. On this Independence Day, maybe that's enough—to be like them, bending toward whatever brightness remains, trusting that our collective reaching might yet pull us from this long shadow toward something worthy of celebration.

Golden Hours and Goodbye Hugs

Roasting marshmallows over flickering campfire flames, the satisfying thud of corn hole bags finding their mark by headlight beams, dancing barefoot by the pool as sunset melted into dusk... we've savored countless twilight hours with our neighborhood families over the years. Monday evening, we seized another such golden moment from our relentless schedules to celebrate five college graduates—boys who marked their COVID-disrupted high school graduation together just four short yet transformative years ago. Now they stood before us as polished young men, diplomas in hand, headed for careers in far-flung cities stretching from coast to coast and beyond.

The logistics defied reason: two had flown in the previous night on late flights and multiple graduates would catch early morning departures the next day. Yet for three precious hours, we had them all gathered together under our familiar shade tarps. The rhythmic thump of corn hole punctuated bursts of laughter and soft melodies drifting from the bluetooth speaker. We blessed our fortune when cool breezes arrived to chase away the week's oppressive heat wave, bringing partly cloudy skies in place of the threatened thunderstorms. Hanging porch lights twinkled as summer flowers glowed in vibrant clusters of pink, yellow, and orange.

After demolishing Chipotle bowls and sweet watermelon slices, we pulled the boys from their competitive corn hole tournament. My friend Heidi had orchestrated the evening's surprise: photo books chronicling twenty years of shared memories. Basketball tournaments and baseball diamonds, water polo matches and swim team victories arranged alongside countless afternoons at Caterpillar Park's weathered benches and camping adventures on mountain peaks and beside rushing streams. The books concluded with recent graduation photos and family portraits contributed by every household.

We hadn't choreographed the presentation or prepared speeches—simply placed the five books around our wrought-iron porch table while Heidi gestured to them, saying "Now you can take your friends with you wherever you go." As each young man settled into his chair and opened their copy they began turning pages in unconscious unison, voices rising in delighted recognition over forgotten memories and cameo appearances by old friends. Parents and siblings instinctively gathered around the table, leaning over shoulders to join the chorus of "remember whens" and good-natured groans over questionable haircuts and experimental bleach jobs. The motion sensor light flooded our circle in bright illumination each time someone shifted, creating a spotlight for this impromptu ceremony as they patiently waited for everyone to finish examining each page before advancing together.

My heart swelled until it physically ached, overwhelmed by the generosity of friends, the serendipity that had woven our lives together, and the approaching pain of separation. We mothers shared a quiet moment on the porch steps, pledging to support each other as we navigate this next phase of life. These young people—our sons and their siblings—who now prepare to leave us and sculpt their independent adult lives, shine more precious than gold. Their boundless potential, infectious optimism, open-hearted generosity, relentless drive, soaring ambition, and earnest yearning to craft meaningful lives—we will feel their absence while knowing they need fresh horizons, and our fractured country desperately needs their visionary energy.

As political leaders across the globe contemplate warfare as acceptable means to dubious ends, I find it impossible to fathom the tragedy of sacrificing young people like ours (like any!) to hollow displays of force. We owe them the painstaking work required to nurture peace, to cultivate thriving communities rich with opportunities for genuine connection. This extended family that helped raise our children and document their journey shouldn't be such a rarity. We all crave these moments of authentic togetherness to flourish and thrive, and I hope that our graduates will seek to create their own chosen families as they spread their wings and soar into whatever future awaits.