Sand Between Shifts

Tag: beach

  • Take Me to the Beach

    There’s something about the beach that softens everything sharp. It softens my shoulders, my breath, my grip on the never-ending to-do list I carry in my head like a shadow. It’s the one place where I can truly exhale. Not just the kind of exhale we fake between tasks, but the kind that feels like it comes from somewhere deep in the chest as if my soul finally unclenched.

    At home, I struggle to sit still. My couch can feel like a trap, my phone a constant buzz of reminders and expectations. Even rest starts to feel like another box I need to check off properly. And so I pace. I clean. I worry. I do, and do, and do, until I forget what it means to simply be.

    But take me to the beach, and suddenly, the rules change.

    It doesn’t matter if I’ve been productive that week or if my inbox is overflowing. It doesn’t matter what time it is, what day it is, or how many things I should be doing. When my toes hit the sand, and the sound of the waves rises to meet me, all that noise just… dissolves. There’s only sunshine, salt air, and the rhythm of the ocean, like a lullaby for the nervous system.

    It’s not just the peace; it’s the permission. The beach gives me the rare and sacred permission to rest without guilt. To lie back in my chair, put on some country or rock (depending on the mood), and let the world go on without me for a little while. And somehow, it always does.

    The ocean speaks in a language that bypasses the mind entirely. It’s not logical or productive. It’s primal and timeless. When I sit at the edge of it all, waves rushing in and out, gulls circling above, the sun dipping lower, I remember who I am outside of the rush. I remember what matters. I remember how blessed I am.

    And the best part? I get to share that space with someone I love. My boyfriend and I have made the beach a sacred place for ourselves. It is our quiet retreat, a reset button, a memory bank that we keep building together. There’s nothing better than sitting side by side, feeling the breeze tangle through your hair, exchanging a glance that says: Yeah, this is the good stuff.

    The beach reminds me that life doesn’t always have to be a race or a performance. Sometimes, it’s enough to exist. To breathe. To feel joy without conditions.

    So, if you’re like me, if you ever find yourself stuck in that loop of doing, fixing, and proving, consider this your invitation to unplug. To find your shore. To trade burnout for bare feet and pressure for peace. Take a break, take a beat, and take yourself to the beach.

    You might just find that everything you were searching for was waiting for you in the waves all along.

  • Blackberry Moments

    Welcome to a new kind of conversation. One that walks beside you instead of rushing ahead. This space, much like a quiet path on a slow afternoon, is where we notice the smaller things. The meaningful things. The ones we usually overlook while racing from one task to the next.

    I’ve been meaning to begin this journey for a while. The idea sat with me for months, maybe years. I told myself I would start when I felt more ready, more polished, more certain. But the truth is, waiting for perfect conditions often means waiting forever. So here I am, showing up anyway. No fancy setup, no script written in stone, just an open heart and a desire to connect. If you’re here, thank you for walking this path with me.

    Recently, I read Unscripted by Ernie Johnson Jr., the longtime host of Inside the NBA. If you’ve ever seen the show, you know him as the guy alongside Shaq, Charles Barkley, and Kenny Smith. But his book is not about sports commentary. It’s about life. Honest, messy, soulful life. It made me laugh, cry, and pause in the best way possible.

    One of the stories he shares has stayed with me, and I think it will stay with you too. Early in the book, he introduces the idea of what he calls blackberry moments. He defines them simply as moments so sweet that you savor the taste for a lifetime.

    The name comes from a story about a little league baseball game he played as a kid. During the game, someone hit a ball way out into the outfield, far enough to disappear over the fence. While everyone paused to wait for the ball to be retrieved, the outfielders didn’t come back right away. When the coaches went to look for them, they found the boys standing in a patch of wild blackberry bushes just beyond the fence, happily picking and eating the berries.

    They forgot about the game for a moment. They were caught up in the sweetness of what was right in front of them. That image struck me. Because isn’t that how life often works? We’re focused on the rules and the routines, doing what we’re supposed to do, and then something unexpected and beautiful catches our attention. It’s often small and fleeting, but somehow it stays with us.

    Ernie weaves blackberry moments throughout the book. They are not grand or showy. They’re quiet, real, and deeply human. And they got me thinking about my own.

    One that always comes to mind is a memory from my childhood. It happened more than once, but each time felt just as vivid. When I was around seven or eight, our family had a little routine. Once a week, my mom, my brother, my Mommom, and I would pile into the car and drive to Santori’s, our local deli and produce market. It wasn’t a far drive, but Mommom always used those few minutes to start rattling off our list. Turkey. Ham. American cheese. All the staples.

    Once we got there, we’d split up. My mom and brother would head to the produce section, while Mommom and I made a beeline for the deli counter. That’s where the real magic happened. I’d grab one of those little paper number tickets and clutch it like it was a winning lottery ticket. My whole focus became listening for our number. I took that job seriously. When they finally called it, I would walk up with purpose and recite our order with total confidence. Half a pound of turkey. Half a pound of ham. A pound of American cheese.

    Almost every time, the deli clerk would smile and hand me a slice of cheese before weighing it. That moment made my entire week. I felt important. Like I belonged in the world of grown-ups.

    After we paid and loaded everything into the car, Mommom would always open the bag of cold cuts on the ride home. The four of us would sit in the car, snacking and chatting, with the sun pouring through the windows. I remember the feel of the warm sun on my face and the salty taste of that slice of cheese. It was just an ordinary afternoon. But it was also so much more than that.

    That was a blackberry moment.

    It didn’t change the direction of my life. It didn’t announce itself as something profound. But it lingered. It settled into my bones the way only true sweetness can.

    Blackberry moments aren’t big. They aren’t dramatic. They don’t scream for your attention. They wait patiently inside the folds of your day, hoping you’ll pause long enough to notice them. They show up in the way your child’s hand fits in yours. In the way your dog greets you when you walk in the door. In the way a song makes you feel seen. Or the way your coffee tastes better when you have a minute to actually enjoy it.

    We miss so many of these moments because we are busy, distracted, or convinced that only the big stuff matters. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned from Ernie’s book, and from my own reflections, it’s this: the small things are the big things. The joy is already here. The softness, the beauty, the humanity — it’s all here, tucked inside the mundane.

    So as you go about your week, I hope you’ll keep your eyes open for your own blackberry moments. Don’t worry about chasing something extraordinary. Just be present enough to catch the ordinary while it’s happening.

    Thanks for taking this walk with me. I’ll be back again soon. But until then, take care of yourself. And keep your heart open to the sweet stuff.