Shore thing

I never thought I’d fall in love with the ocean. Growing up in Canada, my summers were spent by the lake—cool, quiet, and familiar. The beach always seemed too vast, too loud, too unpredictable. But then I found myself in Asbury Park, and something shifted. The rhythm of the waves, the warmth of the sand, the way the light dances on the water at dusk—it all felt like coming home in a way I hadn’t expected. It’s where my kids first learned to swim, laughing as the tide carried them, and where they dramatically declared their hatred for fish tacos after one skeptical bite at Mogo.

Now, even as I bundle up against the cold, my mind drifts back to the shore. There’s a quiet magic in the way the ocean pulls you in, making you feel both small and infinite at the same time. I still love the crisp bite of winter, the way snow muffles the world into stillness, but my heart has carved out a new space—one that belongs to salt air, endless horizons, and the memories we’ve tucked between the waves. Maybe home isn’t just one place, but all the moments that leave their mark on you.