Ten Days That Filled Me Back Up
Ten days by the ocean.
Heat.
Sun.
Bare feet in warm sand.
Salt air.
Long walks.
Beautiful food.
And the kind of quality time with Adam that only seems to happen when life finally loosens its grip.
It was one of those trips that fills you back up in all the ways you didn’t even realize you were empty.
You know that feeling when a trip does that?
Who I Am On The Airplane Home
My time on an airplane is always sacred to me. It’s where I reflect on what the trip was and quietly sketch out who I want to be when I land. I journal. I dream. I make little mental lists of what I’m excited to dive into when I get home.
And this time, I felt so refreshed.
So renewed.
Full of what my parents used to call “piss and vinegar.”
That ready-to-roll energy. The kind that makes you feel like you could take on a season, a project, a whole new chapter.
I landed with ideas. With momentum. With that familiar itch to move.
And Then My Body Spoke
And then my body had a very different plan.
I walked back into winter, put my back out, and found myself dizzy with vertigo that made even standing still feel unsteady. It was like my body gently, but firmly, hit the brakes before my heart was ready.
And suddenly, “food that feels like a hug” wasn’t about a recipe at all.
It became about what we reach for when we don’t feel okay.
Learning To Be On The Receiving End
This week, my nourishment didn’t come from a kitchen.
It came from being on the receiving end.
From my boys quietly stepping in.
From cups of tea appearing beside me.
From “Mom, don’t move. I’ve got it.”
From being reminded that I don’t always have to be the strong one. The capable one. The caretaker.
It came from letting myself be cared for.
And if I’m being honest, that part has been harder than the pain.
I’m so practiced at being the one who nourishes.
The one who checks in.
The one who keeps things moving.
Receiving care asks me to loosen my grip on that identity. To let myself be seen in a softer, slower version of myself. To trust that I am still me even when I’m not producing, hosting, fixing, or tending.
That I’m still worthy of love when I’m resting.
Still allowed to take up space when I’m quiet.
Still enough when I’m doing nothing at all.
The Softest Landing
The irony is the universe seemed to know before I did.
Our flights were delayed and cancelled on the way home. We arrived to snow. And then Monday became a storm day. No school. Nowhere to be. Nowhere to rush.
It was one of those picture-perfect winter days. Fresh snow. Bright sun. The house is full again with the kids home from school..
What could have felt like an inconvenience actually became the softest landing.
It gave me permission I might not have taken on my own.
Permission to ease back into life.
Permission to stay wrapped in stillness.
Permission to simply be with my boys in the middle of an ordinary, extraordinary day.
It was exactly what my body needed.
Not a dramatic reset.
Just a gentle return.
Easing Back In
In the past, coming home from a trip meant one thing for me. Catch up.
I would rush straight back into life.
Meal plans.
Laundry.
Grocery lists.
Meal prep.
Right back to work without even catching my breath.
Almost as if rest had an expiry date.
Lately, I’ve been getting better at easing back in.
At not treating the end of a trip like a switch that has to be flipped.
At giving myself a day or two to re-enter.
At letting the memories settle before the to-do list takes over.
But even with that intention, there’s still a part of me that wants to prove I’m “back.”
That wants the fridge stocked, the laundry done, the week mapped out.
That familiar pull to get ahead.
This time, I didn’t get the choice.
My body made it for me.
And maybe that was the gift.
Because instead of easing back in as a concept,
I had to live it.
Sleeping Like A Dog
And then there was the sleep.
So much sleep.
I’m not even going to sugarcoat it. I’ve been sleeping like a dog. Deep. Heavy. Middle of the day naps. The kind of sleep your body asks for when it’s done pretending it’s fine.
And instead of fighting it, I’m letting it happen.
What Comfort Really Looks Like
Because sometimes comfort looks like soup simmering on the stove.
Sometimes it looks like toast and butter because that’s all you’ve got in you.
And sometimes it looks like crawling back into bed and actually listening when your body says, “That’s enough for today.”
This week, my body asked for gentleness.
Not productivity.
Not momentum.
Not even optimism.
Just a slower pace.
So today’s hug isn’t a dish.
It’s permission.
Permission to rest after something beautiful.
Permission to feel the whiplash of going from warm to winter.
Permission to receive the care that’s being offered.
Permission to sleep when your body asks for sleep.
Even if that nourishment isn’t edible.
Even if it looks like doing less than you think you should.
Maybe that’s what comfort really is.
Not fixing.
Not powering through.
Not pretending you’re fine.
Just being honest about where you are and letting that be enough for today.
Lots of love,
Marsha
