A Coming Home-Again

We drove two and a half hours to the coast with Anika’s photography class for whale watching. Leo was wildly overstimulated and sensory-seeking. The car ride was long, and the wait to board the boat required every skill I’ve honed over the years with them. I worried about how the next four hours would unfold.

But as the boat began to move, I watched Leo regulate. The vibration of the motor, the sound of the water surrounding us, the rocking lullaby of the waves—all of it seemed to hold them.

Leo grew quiet, gazing out at the ocean. Then they turned to me and said, “It’s like a coming home.”

I asked what they meant, and Leo explained: “This is the beginning of life. We were created here.”

As only Leo can, they reminded me how to be fully present. I told them how I always cry when I first see the ocean. I began, “I’m always overcome by—” and Leo interrupted, finishing the thought: “Its power.”

I nodded. We both grew quiet again. I looked at Leo and whispered, “It is a coming home.”
Leo smiled, and together we turned back toward the water. The boat carried us forward with more gentleness, more patience, more joy.

Later, my dad came by and I shared what Leo had said. I translated to his language: “I am the ocean and the ocean is I.” He nodded and said simply, “That’s it.”

For me, standing before the ocean always brings awe. I long to bow before its power and beauty. It reminds me of my own worthiness. We are made of the same. How humbling to feel part of it all—and at the same time, to feel as if I am an equal to all that beauty.

My dad and children stood side by side- scanning the ocean for whales. I watched them laugh and giggle together. And then, without warning, the voice again echoes inside of me: moments like these are fleeting. My whole being wanted to grasp it, hold it, not let go.

My heart's clench was broken by a juvenile humpback surfacing beside the boat. I didn’t reach for my phone. I knew I didn’t have time. All I could do was witness—and remember.

As global warming tightens its grip, as the ocean faces its death, a baby humpback still plays. Fleeting moments but they are not lost. They are within us.

How silly it is to grasp-the ocean lives here. And isn’t that what it all means? Isn’t it all a coming home again?

The Observer

A message from the marionettist 

Please know I wish I could walk beside you

And for awhile in late morning I believe I can

Movement echos with belief

Inevitably by afternoon heat radiates my muscles

Doubt grows to acceptance

The world is no longer my domain

Caged without bars

Service to my family has been my purpose

But it dissolves

My role now unable to be played

My absence is now the burden 

By evening I only pretend to be there

My body a barrier

Disconnection to those I love

Relationships strained

Pain waves radiate

I watch it all before me

The trails I want to walk

A voyeur to my life

Silence muffles the pain

Engagement no longer an option

Retreat

I wonder if this is it now

Death while alive

The marionettist grips on to the last of bit of involvement

But even that slips away

I exist and observe

Remember This

A few weeks ago, Aviana, Anika and I went to the Hozier concert at Fenway Park in downtown Boston. As the concert got going I was taken aback that nearly everyone had their phones pointed at the stage. Small clips, your favorite song—fine. But the whole show? It struck me as proof of how much the younger generation struggles to be present without documenting it.

At the same time, I recognized that I, too, wanted to document the moment—but not the performance. What I wanted to capture was my daughters.

So often, I see them wrestle with taking up space in the world. I remind them constantly. When they leave in the mornings, I yell, “Remember to take up space today!”—usually followed by an eye roll. But I wonder if they know what I mean: what it looks like for a woman to be unapologetic—in her body, her emotions, her needs, her opinions. To own her power.

I can’t fully articulate it in words, but I know it when I see it, and I know it when I feel it. It’s magic. It’s the purest form of contentment. As a mother, watching your child step into themselves with grace and confidence is one of life’s most rewarding moments.

The concert itself was the hottest four hours of my life. We danced in 100-degree heat, plus humidity, plus 30,000 people. It felt like being trapped in a massive, wet sauna surrounded by radiating bodies. People danced, sang, and wiped sweat. Makeup melted, clothes clung. Vanity disappeared. Music remained.

Then Hozier paused to speak. He reflected on the state of the world, on the connections between American and Irish independence, on the sacrifices made so we could live in a free democracy where all have the right to prosper.

The crowd erupted in agreement at every pause. And yet, I couldn’t help noticing the disconnect. This was a mostly white, young, economically secure crowd—people who, in truth, are not actively working to protect the freedoms of minorities or to confront genocide happening now. They are living privilege and, often, unwilling to change the power dynamics that benefit them.

It made me wonder: what is the point of famous people saying these things if the cheers don’t translate to action? If ideals don’t become practice? (I include myself here—I, too, live with privilege and struggle to find meaningful ways to create change.)

But as my thoughts churned, I looked back at my daughters. They were clapping, whistling, yelling out. And I realized: this is where change begins. With awareness. With cheering. With a spark. And from there, it grows.

At that moment, I only saw them. I could see their light without the weight the world tries to place on them. They weren’t just connecting with the crowd; they were connecting with their own voices, their values. And as the music started again, they danced more freely. Free of society’s expectations. Free of their struggle. Free of the self-critical voice they often carry.

I was proud. Proud of who they are, proud of what they value, proud of the good they will create.

And then, like a lightning bolt, it hit me again: moments like this are fleeting.

I am preparing for the second greatest change of my life—second only to becoming their mother. Soon, I will no longer be raising my children. Soon they’ll go to concerts with friends, partners and hopefully together. Soon they’ll decide how they want to show up in the world, what causes they’ll fight for.

I’ll still watch, but from afar. I’ll hear their stories in phone calls, in check-ins, in the moments when they still need their mom. I’ll see glimpses in photos. I will hopefully become a welcomed guest in their life.

I know this is right, but my chest aches at the thought. 

As my breath returned to rhythm and I wiped tears from my face, I put my phone away, centered myself in the moment before me, and whispered to them both:

“Remember this.”