Saltwater Soul

There are places that raise us long before we know we’re being shaped. Some grow up knee deep in mud, growing up on a rural Vermont farm. Others know only tall buildings as their back yard and never realize the thick forest they don’t get to experience when they step outside.

But the lucky ones grow up with their bare feet in the sands of the coarse New England coast.

I didn’t understand it then – the pull, the rhythm, the claim the ocean already had on me and my soul. I just knew that every summer, every visit, every low tide walk with pockets full of shells felt like being home, being safe, and being surrounded by a constant calm that grounded me and centered my whole being.

I was just a kid with sunburned shoulders and tangled hair, walking the waterline like it was the most normal thing in the world to find beauty in what the waves decided to give back.

And now, decades later, I still walk that same coarse coast. Only this time, I’m carrying my daughter on my hip, or her small hand in mine. Watching her look down at the same scattered pieces of glass and pottery - eyes wide, breath held - as if each one is a treasure she personally discovered for the first time in the entire history of the world.

There’s something about that.

The way time folds.

The way the tide keeps returning.

The way the ocean teaches us that nothing stays the same, and yet, somehow, everything remains familiar.

I think that’s why I keep coming back.

Not just for the sea glass.

Not just for the inspiration.

But because this place raised me.

And now, in its own way, it’s helping me raise her.

Some people spend their whole lives searching for a place that feels like home.

I was lucky enough to grow up already knowing mine.

And every tide brings me back to it.🌊