A friend recently nudged me with a classic seasonal prompt: “You haven’t said anything about summer plans—no trips? No getaway vibes?”
I laughed, brushing it off with a cheeky, “Maybe it’s just old age,” and we both chuckled. But something about the question lingered in my spirit. It reminded me of a version of myself from years ago—one who had already checked off many boxes long before most people my age had even started.
I finished college at 19. Moved out of my parents’ home right after. Earned a master’s by 21 and began a career in global tech. I was flying solo across continents, three trips a year, striking places off my bucket list like it was a to-do list. And I loved it. I’ve always enjoyed my own company—deeply.
But somewhere along the line, even that started to feel… stale.
The independence that once felt thrilling became repetitive. Wake. Work. Gym. Church. Home. Repeat. Even with my sisters around, and even in my curated, freedom-filled life, I started to feel something tugging beneath the surface—an ache for something more.
At the time, I couldn’t name it. But I know now: it was connection. Not the fleeting kind, not the social kind. The kind that makes you stretch. Share. Surrender. The kind that pulls you out of the shell of self-preservation and into the messy, beautiful business of belonging—to people, to purpose, to the moment.
We talk a lot about self-love these days. And I believe in it. I do. But I also know that a life overly guarded can become a life under-lived. And I know this because I have lived a life of isolation, and discovered we weren’t just made to enjoy our own company. We were made to pour, to hold, to be held. To connect. To offer ourselves not just protection—but participation.
I think that’s why, when the craving for connection peaked, I somehow found myself saying yes to marriage. Then to motherhood. Both experiences cracked me wide open. They still do. And if you’ve journeyed with me for a while, you’ll know I’m in a season of return. Of reconnect.
It’s not a retreat. It’s not an escape. It’s a recalibration.
For the last five years, my days were shaped almost entirely by other people’s needs and rhythms. But now, I’m finding my own again—not to walk away from giving, but to give with intention. To live with rhythm, not resentment. To strike that delicate balance: living for others without losing myself.
And perhaps that is the richest part of life. The sweet spot.
Where we’re not hiding in self-sufficiency or dissolving into self-sacrifice.
Where we can say no without guilt and say yes without fear.
Where we can hold space for our souls and still give generously of them.
Where connection doesn’t cost us ourselves—but invites us deeper into who we really are.
Maybe that’s what this summer is for.
Not the flights or the photos or the thrill of new cities.
But the quiet joy of standing at the threshold of your own becoming,
and choosing to stay long enough to connect—within and without.