June is finally here.
May, in all its chaotic glory, has officially earned its unofficial nicknames: “Maycember” and “Mayhem Month.” If you’re a parent, you know exactly what that means. It’s a whirlwind of end-of-school-year events, final projects, recitals, sports banquets, coaches gifts, and a social calendar that seems to implode before your very eyes. Every ounce of that seasonal pandemonium rang true in our house this year.
And now—finally—summer is upon us.
We’re doing something uncharacteristic this year: we’re wrapping up school early. For Christmas, our oldest daughter—our resident fish, a devoted swimmer—received a pretty incredible gift: a weeklong swim camp in Florida. So we’re packing up, heading south, and leaning into something I’ve been craving all year long—unplugging and wandering. Two of my favorite summer pastimes.
I don’t know if you’ve felt it too, but this past year felt especially full. Not just in the practical, busy sense—but emotionally and mentally, too. The weight of global crises, national headlines, and the ever-growing noise of a society that seems to have forgotten how to speak with civility—it’s a lot. Add in our daily lives, the demands of parenting, work, and just keeping all the wheels spinning, and it makes sense that so many of us are craving a bit of exhale.
I’m always aware of how deeply blessed I am to live a life that’s full—of family, of purpose, of community. My little crew of four is the center of my world—the reason behind everything I do, the steady rhythm of my days. But even with all that love and purpose, I find myself craving something simpler—slower moments, less noise, more ease.
After our Florida detour, later in the summer, we’ll visit extended family and old friends. The ones who shaped us, who live in places we can no longer visit as easily or often, but who remain central in our stories. There’s something about summer that makes me want to reach back—into my roots, into tradition, into relationships that time hasn’t erased, only paused.
Ever since my kids were little, I’ve become what I call a “Mom of the Summer.” It’s my favorite version of myself. Days lost at the pool, sticky popsicles and sprinkler giggles, messy crafts in the backyard, long bike rides with no destination. Even now, when people ask what I’m doing with my children over break, I sometimes shock them into silence with my answer:
A whole lot of nothing.
And it’s glorious.
Because “nothing,” in summer language, means everything: freedom, rest, connection, and play. It means books on porches and dinners that stretch into dusk. It means less rush and more rhythm. It means remembering who we are when the calendar clears and we can hear ourselves think again.
Here’s to whatever your summer holds—whether you’re jet-setting, road-tripping, or building a vacation out of your own backyard. I hope you find your version of unplugging and wandering. I hope you find your “nothing.”
Because in that nothing, we sometimes find everything we’ve been missing.
The Forty Files 