I feel this intense need for people to know how grateful I am for what I have in my life.
As I write this, I am sitting on the couch in the house that my family has vacationed at every year since I was born and before then. I was here as a thought, a whisper of a soul, in the womb, as an infant, as a crying toddler, for a wedding, throughout my childhood, growing into a teenager, and now as a young adult. Every time I smell the beach specifically from this house, pull into the driveway, and see the front door, this intense sense of comfort lulls me inside. My childhood is written in the walls. My baby fingers glide over the banister. Hundreds of books have been devoured by my mind where I write this newsletter in this moment. I am lucky enough to have at least three homes at one time, this being one of them.
Everyone in my extended family tries to come for this week every year. My dad is one of six siblings, so I have 24 cousins on my dad’s side. It’s chaos, and it’s lovely. My grandpa used to play with us on the staircase, pretending to be a troll under the bridge. I’ll never forget that one time my cousin walked straight into a glass sliding door. When I was finally allowed to join the older cousins on The Frozen Yogurt Run. The Sunshine Club (if you know, you know). The birthdays I’ve spent here. That one summer my girl cousins and I slept in the master bedroom closet. Our High School Musical movie marathon. The first gentle realization I had that said, I am not okay. I need help.
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to The Sunday Reads to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.