In the many years before my daughter arrived, I returned to my beach searching for answers. I was a lost soul, trying to make sense of life’s twists and turns, and each week I would collapse into the warm, steady embrace of her sand dunes. Sweet, salty kisses drifted from her waves to meet my skin. I’d lie beneath her sun, revel in her storms, and fall asleep to the symphony of her creatures—feather, scale, and skin alike—playing just beyond the tide. She held me in ways no human could.
Years passed, and when I moved north, she remained constant. Each visit offered a balm for my restless heart. A few moments on her sand, and I felt temporarily whole, as if I could carry a little more of myself back to the world. I left pieces of my heart in her waves, and with each return, she returned a sliver of it to me. Occasionally, she would toss in a handful of sand for good measure, reminding me that healing often comes with a little grit.
Life as a single mother by choice has never been something I questioned. The decision was weighed with care, discussed during long walks along the beach with friends, where we shared our happiest joys and our deepest fears. Those walks were sacred; we reserved them for the news that demanded witness. And I think we all understood that whatever we must say would be received with empathy by our friend, Beach. She knew just when to offer a rocky shoulder for tears or a sunlit nose for comfort the next day. So it only made sense that the biggest decision of my life—to become a mother alone—would be shared with her first. After all, she already knew my heart.
I fought the currents of doubt and fear time and again, yet I would do it all over if it meant Laurel would be in my arms each time. I haven’t needed a man beside me to celebrate triumphs or console heartbreak. I haven’t missed balancing a relationship while raising a child. And for anyone questioning the depth of her love, you would be amazed at the people who have emerged from every corner just to witness her light. Just tonight, a friend told me, “I think we all needed a Laurel,” and I couldn’t agree more. She is the perfect answer to prayers, not just mine, but to so many hearts around her.
If I have one regret as a mother, it’s that I did not bring her to my beach sooner. Time moves unpredictably—days blend, weeks leap into months, and seasons of motherhood shift from tiny clothes to toys, then table food. Before I know it, the fragile, helpless baby I held is a spirited, independent toddler, and I find myself wondering how I will ever rise from the floor again after my knees lock. Time is a mischievous companion, indeed. Someday she will approach me with questions, and together, with the beach beside us, we will begin a story of love as vast as the ocean.
Now, I sit and watch my daughter capture the very essence of the beach I have loved for so long. Sometimes, I wonder if she was plucked straight from a world of mermen, for she embodies everything this place represents. Her tiny snores mimic the rhythm of the waves, her laughter rings like shells tinkling in the sun, and her two-toothed grin is a treasure any pirate would envy. Her feisty, independent streak mirrors the tides themselves, high and low, untamable and free.
Just as the sea carries bits of jetsam wherever it rolls, my Sunshine Girl drifts gifts in her wake—crumbs of cookies, tossed stuffed animals, little sandals scattered across the floor. And yet, each moment of chaos is punctuated with affection; she presses her sticky forehead to mine, leaving sweet, salty kisses even if slightly slobbery. I now bask in her sunshine, drinking in her wild, spirited air. That trail of cookie crumbs is as endearing as sand between my toes. Her spunk, her temerity, and her joy captivate me. And while I still love my beach, I no longer need to visit as often. Everything I need is here, holding my hand, walking beside me, and teaching me the truest lessons of love.
