Let me offer a gentle disclaimer: whatever path you choose for yourself or your children, I respect and support it. The ability to decide what works best for our families is a freedom I hold dear and never take lightly.
Personally, I believe in keeping summers simple. We sign up for a camp or two, but most days, it’s just me and my girls—a trio of adventurers navigating the slow, sun-drenched weeks together. We often link up with like-minded families who share this easygoing rhythm, creating a loose, lovely patchwork of connection and play. I want to acknowledge that the work I do allows for a great deal of flexibility—an incredible advantage—and I share this with full awareness of the access and options it affords me.
There’s a noticeable level of wealth and access in the community we call home—layers of advantage I’m continually mindful of and humbled by. I grew up with deep love and meaningful opportunities, but the world my children are growing up in is marked by even greater abundance. Around us, the options often tip toward the lavish. I do my best to stay rooted in gratitude and perspective, always mindful of what truly matters beneath the shine.
We’re very much a 1980s, early-90s kind of crew—think popsicle stick crafts, afternoons at the community pool, and, perhaps most importantly, devoted patrons of the local library. I can’t recall a single childhood summer that wasn’t anchored by a stack of borrowed books. Reading was my refuge and my thrill, a quiet ritual that shaped my imagination and offered escape. Even now, summer feels incomplete without getting lost in the pages of a novel—trading sticky heat for the cool hush of a library, and following a character through their rise or ruin with breathless attention. It’s tradition, therapy, and adventure all wrapped into one.
I’m deeply attuned to the library as a resource because within its walls, differences fade and every person is met with quiet dignity and open arms. It’s a rare place where belonging isn’t earned or measured, where identities are embraced without judgment, and where simply being curious is all it takes to belong.
So if you’re looking for something sacred this summer, start with your library card. Make the weekly visit. Let your kids wander the aisles. Let yourself, too. There is magic tucked between the stacks, waiting patiently to be rediscovered. The library is more than a building—it’s a beacon. A quiet sanctuary. A reminder that some of the best things in life really are free. In our house, it’s not just a stop on the schedule—it’s a cornerstone of the season.
Summer often conjures images of beach days, backyard sprinklers, and road trips—a season built around movement and memory. But alongside all that activity, there’s a quieter tradition we return to year after year: the local summer reading program. It anchors our weeks with purpose and possibility, offering a sense of adventure that starts not on a plane or highway, but on the page. In a world that moves fast, it’s one of the few rhythms we never rush—and always cherish.
The Forty Files 