blessing

Sewing My Way to Sanity

Quilting started as a hobby. It has since evolved into emotional regulation… and an entirely unhinged fabric acquisition strategy.

When my brain feels loud and life feels like it’s happening all at once, quilting is the one thing that reliably quiets everything down. Measuring, cutting, piecing, pressing—my thoughts don’t stand a chance against a quarter-inch seam allowance.

Quilting demands just enough focus to keep me out of my own head.

You can’t spiral while trying to line up points. You can’t overthink when the fabric is actively trying to slide away from you. Quilting insists on presence, whether you’re ready for it or not.

And it’s physical in the best way.

The weight of folded fabric. The snick of the rotary cutter. The iron hissing like it’s judging you. The steady hum of the machine. It’s impossible to doom-scroll while quilting—which is unfortunate for my phone, but excellent for my nervous system.

Quilting is different than other crafts.

This isn’t instant gratification. Quilts take time. Weeks. Months. Sometimes years. Quilting teaches patience through mild frustration and repeated seam ripping. It also teaches acceptance—because at some point you decide that seam is close enough and move on with your life.

Other crafts chase perfection. Quilting gently whispers, “No one will see that once it’s quilted.”

And then there’s the fabric.

I do not have a fabric stash. I have a fabric collection. A carefully curated, emotionally significant archive of potential futures. Each piece has a purpose. Not a plan—a purpose. There is a difference.

Fabric hoarding is not about excess. It’s about preparedness.

What if I need it for this quilt? What if I never find it again? What if I don’t use it for five years but then suddenly it’s PERFECT? These are valid concerns and I will not be taking questions at this time.

Quilting humbles you regularly.

You sew something wrong. You seam rip it. You sew it wrong again. You question all your life choices. Then somehow, miraculously, it comes together. Quilting is basically resilience training with cotton.

But here’s the thing—it works.

Some days I quilt for joy.

Some days I quilt because my emotions are doing parkour.

Some days I quilt because keeping a pile of fabric organized feels easier than organizing my thoughts.

Quilting doesn’t fix everything.

But it gives my hands something steady to do while my brain sorts itself out. It reminds me that progress can be slow and still be progress. That messy pieces can become something beautiful. That it’s okay to pause, adjust, and keep going.

I didn’t mean to sew my way to sanity.

But here I am—surrounded by fabric, half-finished quilts, and the quiet comfort of knowing that if nothing else makes sense today, I can always line up another seam.

And honestly?

That—and maybe just one more yard of fabric—is enough.

Blessings y’all – Amy

Today Is Mom’s Birthday

Today is my grandma’s birthday. We called her Mom.

My mother was 17 when she had me and we lived with my grandparents in my early years. I grew up hearing her be called Mom and it stuck. Somehow, that name fit her perfectly.

Birthdays after someone is gone are strange things. They don’t announce themselves loudly, but they sit with you all day. They show up in quiet moments—when you’re folding laundry, when you smell something familiar, when your hands are busy and your mind wanders back to her without asking permission.

Some of my deepest comforts came from Mom. Sewing, for one. My love of sewing—of fabric, and texture, and making something useful and beautiful with my hands—came straight from her. When I sew now, it feels like a conversation that never really ended. Every stitch carries a little bit of her patience, her practicality, her quiet creativity. It still feels like being close to her, even all these years later.

Then there’s the food. I miss her slumghetti—that wonderfully imperfect, comforting dish that somehow tasted like home no matter how simple it was. No one else makes it quite the same, and maybe that’s the point. It wasn’t just about the meal; it was about the care behind it, the way she made it for me as many times as I asked as an act of love.

Some of the moments I miss most are the smallest ones. When I was little and didn’t want to nap, she’d let me hold her ring finger while she told me to “rest my eyes.” I can still feel it—how safe that felt, how the world quieted down just enough. That tiny gesture held so much comfort. It was her way of saying, I’m here. You’re okay.

Mom had that rare gift of making you feel steady just by being present. Not the dramatic kind of safe—the quiet kind. The kind where the edges of the world soften. Where you don’t have to explain yourself. Where being loved is as natural as breathing.

I think about the lessons she taught without ever formally teaching them. How love looks like showing up. How strength can be gentle. How kindness doesn’t have to be loud to be powerful. How family is built on consistency, not perfection.

There are days I wish I could tell her who I’ve become since she left. About the life I’m building. About the ways her influence still shows up—in my hands, in my kitchen, in the way I care for the people I love. I think she’d smile at that.

Sometimes I catch myself doing something and think, That’s Mom. A habit. A phrase. A moment of patience I didn’t know I had. And when that happens, the ache softens, because it reminds me she’s still here—stitched into who I am.

Today, on her birthday, I miss her deeply. I miss her hands, her food, her quiet reassurances. But I’m also grateful. Grateful for a love so strong that it still shows up in the smallest moments of my life.

Happy Birthday, Mom.

I still hold your hand—just in different ways now.

Blessings Y’all – Amy

The Valentine’s Day Conundrum

Valentine’s Day is one of those holidays that manages to be wildly polarizing. Some people circle it on the calendar with hearts and anticipation, while others would happily fast-forward from February 13th straight to the 15th without so much as a glance at a pink card aisle (used to be me!). Few days stir up as many opinions, eye rolls, expectations, and emotions—all wrapped in red cellophane.

For the people who hate Valentine’s Day, the reasons are usually layered. It can feel commercialized, performative, or painfully loud about something that feels tender and private. It can highlight loneliness, loss, or relationships that didn’t turn out the way they were supposed to. It can remind you of love that you had – and lost. Sometimes it just feels exhausting to be told—by ads, social media, and store displays—what love should look like and how it should be celebrated.

And then there are the people who love it. Not because of the chocolate or the flowers (though those don’t hurt), but because it’s an excuse to pause. To be intentional. To say “I choose you” out loud in a world that moves too fast. For them, Valentine’s Day isn’t pressure—it’s permission. It’s the day you can shout to the rooftops how loved and seen they make you feel.

The truth is, both sides make sense.

Love is complicated. It’s joyful and messy, exhilarating and fragile. Some of us have loved deeply and lost. Some of us waited a long time to find the kind of love that feels safe. Some of us are still learning how to let ourselves be loved at all. Of course a holiday built entirely around love is going to hit differently depending on where you stand.

But here’s where the conundrum softens.

Valentine’s Day doesn’t actually belong to restaurants, greeting card companies, or curated Instagram posts. At its core, it belongs to love itself—the real, lived-in kind. The love that shows up on ordinary Tuesdays. The love that knows your quirks and stays anyway. The love that holds your hand through grief, growth, and grocery store errands. The love that brings you home yet another plant when you didn’t need one just because it makes you smile.

Being in love—real love—isn’t about grand gestures once a year. It’s about choosing each other in small, steady ways. It’s about laughter in the kitchen, quiet understanding, and feeling seen without needing to explain yourself. It’s about sitting in the bed watching TV because the chairs in the living room hurt your back. When you’re in that kind of love, Valentine’s Day becomes less of a performance and more of a gentle nod. A reminder.

And maybe that’s the shift worth making.

Instead of asking whether Valentine’s Day is worth celebrating, maybe the better question is whether love is worth acknowledging. Whether we can let the day be soft instead of loud. Honest instead of perfect. Whether we can hold space for both the joy of being in love and the ache of having loved before.

You don’t have to love Valentine’s Day to be in love. And you don’t have to hate it to take it lightly. But if you are in love—deeply, imperfectly, beautifully—there’s something quietly lovely about a day that says, “This matters.”

Not because a calendar told us so.

But because love always has.

Blessings Y’all – Amy

What’s Changed in 19 Years…

Today would have been my 19th wedding anniversary with Fred.

That sentence still lands with weight.

Not because I am stuck there. Not because I want to go back. But because love leaves fingerprints on time, and some dates never become neutral again.

Nineteen years ago, I married a man who shaped me. We built a life in the way couples do—messy, hopeful, unfinished. We grew up together. We learned who we were by learning how to be married. And when he died, that chapter didn’t close neatly. It ended mid-sentence.

Grief doesn’t respect calendars, but anniversaries have a way of knocking anyway.

What anchors me on days like today is gratitude.

Because the love we shared didn’t disappear with him. It lives on in the children he shared with me, in the family we built together, in the relationships and roots that still surround my life. I am profoundly grateful for that legacy. For the laughter that still sounds like him. For the people who carry pieces of him forward without even realizing it. For the fact I can still see his smile in our children’s. He didn’t just leave me memories—he left me a family.

And here’s the part that still feels strange to say out loud: I am deeply, fully, undeniably in love with Tim.

Not instead of loving my Fred.

Not in competition with that love.

Just… also.

For a long time, I thought love worked like a single chair—you vacate it, or you sit in it. One at a time. I didn’t understand that love is more like a house. Rooms get added. Some doors stay closed most days, but they’re still there.

Today is one of those days when an old door creaks open.

I can miss the man I lost and still laugh with the man I married.

I can honor a marriage that ended in death and still be fiercely committed to the one I’m in now.

I can feel the ache of “what would have been” without wishing away what is.

Loving my Tim does not erase my past. And remembering my Fred does not diminish my present.

That’s the juxtaposition people don’t talk about enough—the quiet coexistence.

Tim didn’t replace Fred. He met me after loss reshaped me. He loves a woman who knows how fragile life is, how precious ordinary days are, how deeply commitment can root itself in the bones. He loves me with patience on days like today, when the calendar carries more emotional weight than usual. And that love is not smaller because it came later. If anything, it is more intentional.

Grief taught me that love is not scarce. It expands. It stretches. It surprises you.

So today, I hold both truths.

I remember the man I married nineteen years ago, with gratitude—for our life, for our children, for the family he left behind that still carries me forward.

And I choose the man I wake up next to now, with joy, loyalty, and a full heart.

Both can be true.

Both are true.

And that doesn’t make love complicated.

It makes it real.

Blessings y’all – Amy

Loving Senior Dogs

Nobody tells you how quietly it happens.

One day your dog is bounding through the house, nails clicking, tail wagging so hard it knocks into furniture. And then one day you notice they hesitate before jumping on the couch. They sleep a little deeper. Their face starts to gray in places you swear were brown yesterday.

Having senior dogs is a lesson in noticing.

You notice the way walks get shorter but more intentional. The way they follow you less and watch you more. The way their eyes still light up for food, sunshine, and your voice—even when their bodies don’t cooperate the way they used to.

Senior dogs change the rhythm of your life.

Schedules revolve around medications, vet visits, special diets, and accommodations you never thought about before. Ramps replace stairs. Rugs appear where floors used to be bare. You learn where the nearest emergency vet is without thinking. You start measuring time differently—not in years, but in good days.

And yet… there is something deeply sacred about this stage.

They no longer care about impressing anyone. They aren’t interested in chaos or novelty. What they want is simple: comfort, consistency, and you. They choose their spots carefully. They soak up warmth like it’s their job. They love slower mornings and familiar routines.

Their love becomes quieter, but no less fierce.

There’s a weight to loving a senior dog because you’re always holding two truths at once. You’re grateful they’re still here, and you’re painfully aware that time is not infinite. Every limp, every off day, every vet appointment carries a question you don’t want to ask yet.

But loving them anyway—fully, intentionally—is the whole point.

Senior dogs teach you how to be present.

They teach patience when plans change. Compassion when bodies fail. Acceptance when things are out of your control. They don’t need grand gestures. They need you to show up, again and again, in the small ways: refilling the water bowl, adjusting the blanket, sitting on the floor because they can’t climb onto the couch anymore.

They give you everything they have left.

And if you’re lucky, you get to give it back to them in the form of dignity, comfort, and love at the end of their story.

Loving a senior dog is not for the faint of heart. It’s emotional. It’s expensive. It’s exhausting. And it’s absolutely worth it.

Because when they look at you—old, tired, still trusting—you realize something important:

They were never just a phase of your life.

You were their whole life.

Joy, Reba, Lilah – that is a responsibility, and an honor, I will never take lightly.

Blessings y’all – Amy

Confessions of a Spoiled Wife

I’ve hesitated to write this because “spoiled” is such a loaded word. It conjures images of entitlement, diamonds tossed aside, and someone complaining because their coffee wasn’t hot enough the third time. That’s not me.

But if we’re being honest—and this is a confessions post—I am spoiled.

Not in the flashy, reality-TV sense. I don’t live a life of excess or luxury for the sake of it. I’m spoiled in the quiet, everyday ways that don’t make for Instagram reels but absolutely shape how safe, supported, and loved I feel.

I’m spoiled because my husband notices things.

He notices when I’m overwhelmed before I say it out loud. He notices when my patience is thin, when my shoulders are tense, when I’m carrying more than I should. And instead of telling me to “relax,” he steps in. Sometimes that looks like attacking the never ending to do list we share between us. Sometimes it’s ordering dinner. Sometimes it’s just letting me be cranky without fixing me.

I’m spoiled because he encourages me to rest—even when I’m not very good at it.

I’m wired to keep going, to push through, to feel like there’s always one more thing that needs to be done. Rest doesn’t come naturally to me, and slowing down often feels uncomfortable. He sees that. And instead of rushing me or getting frustrated, he gently nudges me toward pause.

Sometimes that looks like reminding me it’s okay to sit down. Sometimes it’s handling things so I don’t feel the pressure to keep moving. And sometimes it’s just being patient while I learn how to stop without feeling guilty.

That kind of steady encouragement—the kind that doesn’t demand or expect anything in return—is its own kind of care.

I’m spoiled because my opinions matter.

I’ve always prided myself on being independent. I didn’t need help. I didn’t rely on anyone. I handled things myself, carried my own weight, and wore self-sufficiency like a badge of honor. Depending on someone felt risky—like giving up control.

And then there’s my husband.

He never asked me to be smaller or less capable. He just made it safe to lean. Little by little, he made dependence feel less like weakness and more like trust. Being able to say “I’ve got this” and “I need you” without shame has been unexpectedly freeing. He makes room for both versions of me—the strong one and the tired one—and somehow makes both feel equally valued.

Not just on the big stuff, but on the boring, everyday decisions. The tone of our life together isn’t dictated—it’s a compromise we work on all the time. I’m heard. I’m considered. I’m respected even when we disagree. Especially then.

And yes, sometimes I’m spoiled in the more obvious ways too.

Thoughtful surprises that say, I was thinking about you when you weren’t in the room. Surprise Stanleys (when we all know I don’t need any more). Over the top thoughtful gifts on the gifting occasions. Not only putting up with but encouraging my hobbies. Those things add up. They soften the edges of hard days.

But here’s the part that matters most: being spoiled doesn’t mean I don’t give back.

This isn’t a one-way street where I take and take and call it love. I show up. I carry weight. I contribute. I fight for us. I love loudly and protect fiercely. Being spoiled isn’t about imbalance—it’s about care being mutual and intentional.

I’m spoiled because my marriage is safe.

Safe to be honest. Safe to be imperfect. Safe to grow and change without fear of being punished for it.

If calling myself a spoiled wife makes someone uncomfortable, I’m okay with that. I didn’t stumble into this life by accident. I chose a partner who treats me well, and I choose him back every day.

So yes – I confess.

I’m spoiled.

And I’m incredibly grateful.

Blessings y’all – Amy

The Joys of Being a Brand-New Mimi

I’ve only been a Mimi for a short time—just four months—but somehow it already feels like a part of me that’s always existed.

Being a brand-new Mimi is a quiet kind of joy. It’s the joy of learning her rhythms, her sounds, the way her face lights up when she recognizes me. It’s lighting up like I won the lottery when a text comes in with a new video or picture. It’s realizing that even at four months old when I visit she knows exactly who I am—and that I am safe, familiar, and love her beyond measure.

There is something incredibly grounding about holding a baby who fits perfectly in the crook of your arm. About rocking her while the world slows down just enough to breathe again. In those moments, nothing else matters—not the noise, not the stress, not the endless mental lists. Just her steady breathing and the way her tiny fingers curl around mine.

At four months, everything is new. Her curiosity is wide open, and I love my front-row seat to the wonder. I get to hear the first belly laughs, the wide-eyed fascination with ordinary things, the serious concentration as she studies the world around her. Being her Mimi means I get to marvel alongside her.

This season comes with a beautiful freedom. I don’t carry the weight of being her parent—but I carry the privilege of loving her deeply. I get to support, to soothe, to show up without pressure. I get to be present in a way that feels both intentional and light. I get to watch my kids thrive as parents and be so proud of how they love and shape this little person.

There is also something unexpectedly healing about this role. Becoming a Mimi has softened parts of me I didn’t realize were still holding tension. It has reminded me that love doesn’t have to be earned or managed—it can simply be given.

I know this stage will pass quickly. Four months will turn into crawling, then walking, then running. But right now, in this small and fleeting season, I’m soaking it in—the weight of her in my arms, the sound of her laugh, the way being her Mimi feels like a gift wrapped in the quiet moments.

Being a brand-new Mimi has already changed me. And I have a feeling this joy is only just beginning.

Blessing Y’all – Amy

Confessions of A Seasoned Cruiser

After 30+ cruises, I can tell you there’s a big difference between your first time stepping on a ship and your thirtieth. The first time, you’re wide-eyed at everything—the glittering atrium, the sheer size of the ship, the endless food options. By the time you’ve cruised dozens of times, you still appreciate the beauty, but you also know where the best coffee is without consulting the deck plan, which elevator banks actually move faster, and which quiet corner is perfect for reading when the pool deck is packed.

Boarding Day: No Panic Necessary

New cruisers often bolt onto the ship the second boarding opens, racing to squeeze in every minute. Seasoned cruisers know better. I’ve learned the art of the late arrival—letting the initial rush die down before strolling aboard without stress. The ship won’t sail without me, and sometimes the best move is to head straight for that tucked-away lounge instead of fighting the buffet line with half the passenger list.

Packing Like a Pro

On my first cruise, I packed half my closet. By cruise thirty, I’ve mastered the art of less. Packing for the Caribbean means keeping it light—swimsuits, sundresses, sandals, and easy layers that don’t take up much space. For a leaf-peeping cruise, it’s an entirely different approach. The mornings are crisp, the afternoons warm, and the evenings chilly enough for a sweater and scarf. My suitcase shifts from flip-flops to sturdy shoes, from cover-ups to cozy layers. The key is versatility and always having a carry-on ready with what I’ll need that first day, whether it’s a swimsuit for tropical waters or a fleece pullover for watching fall leaves roll by from the deck.

Skipping the Crowds

After so many cruises, I know when to join the excitement and when to duck away. First-timers chase every trivia contest and poolside game. I’ve learned the joy of finding the hidden decks no one bothers with, slipping into the spa pool when most passengers are in port, and savoring specialty dining instead of fighting buffet lines. It’s not about doing it all—it’s about knowing what fills your cup.

Loving the Rituals

Even after thirty sailings, there are traditions I never miss. The sailaway moment—drink in hand, wind whipping my hair—as the ship pulls away from port. The late-night stroll under starlight when the decks are quiet. That first coffee of the day with nothing but ocean stretched ahead. These rituals are the heartbeat of cruising, and they’ve never lost their magic.

Why I Keep Coming Back

Being a seasoned cruiser doesn’t mean the excitement has faded. If anything, it’s richer now. I no longer stress over what to pack or whether I’ll “miss something.” I know what I love, what I can skip, and how to pace myself. Every ship has its own personality, every itinerary its own surprises, and every voyage still feels like an escape.

After 30+ cruises, I’ve learned this: the sea always gives you something new, whether it’s a sunrise you’ve never seen, a flavor you’ve never tasted, or a memory you’ll carry home. That’s why I keep boarding—because cruising, at its best, is never about the count. It’s about the journey.

Blessings y’all – Amy

Lessons to Learn From Sea Turtles

Let’s be real—if there’s any creature on Earth that knows how to vibe, it’s the sea turtle. These chill, flippered dudes have been cruising the oceans, minding their own business, gliding through the gorgeous waters like they’re late for absolutely nothing. And maybe that’s the first lesson the sea turtle has for me: Relax. You’ll get there. (I have a hard time with that one sometimes!) But beyond their perpetually unbothered expressions and graceful moves, I’ve found that sea turtles carry a surprising amount of symbolic swag.

Ever feel like the world is in a rush and you’re the only one not moving at lightning speed? Definitely—especially on my commute every day! I’ve come to appreciate that turtles are the poster children for “slow and steady wins the race.” I mean, they literally starred in that fable with the hare. (Okay, fine—it was a land turtle, but same energy.)

Lesson learned: Sea turtles remind me that life isn’t a sprint. It’s a long, winding, saltwater-drenched journey. I try to pace myself, breathe, and take snack breaks.

Sea turtles hatch on a beach, immediately dodge a buffet of hungry predators, then swim thousands of miles… only to return years later to the exact same beach to lay their own eggs. GPS? Magic? Sea turtle sorcery? Who knows. But I think it’s pretty impressive.

Lesson learned: I’m learning to trust my instincts. Even when I feel totally lost, I like to believe there’s a little sea turtle inside me that knows the way home. (And by “home,” I mean wherever I feel most like myself—especially if that’s a white sandy beach surrounded by turquoise waters.)

That shell? It’s not just fashionable—it’s functional. It’s protection, armor, and a mobile home all in one. Sea turtles don’t carry stress. They carry boundaries. And I’m trying to do the same.

Lesson learned: It’s okay to go inward sometimes. I’ve learned to withdraw, recharge, and protect my peace when I need to. My shell = my safe space. (And yes, I fully support decorating it with stickers.)

Some sea turtles live to be over 100 years old. That’s a lot of wisdom tucked behind those sleepy eyes. In many cultures, they represent ancient knowledge, patience, and those cosmic, chill-grandparent vibes. I mean, if anyone’s got it figured out, it’s a sea turtle.

Lesson learned: I try not to underestimate my quiet wisdom. I’m learning to speak when it matters, observe more than I react, and if someone asks me for advice, I offer a knowing head nod and my best Dory-inspired: “Just keep swimming.”

Let’s be honest—if I could be reincarnated as anything, a sea turtle would be top-tier. Living at the beach, eating jellyfish like noodles, napping in coral coves, and wearing a permanent smile? That’s the dream.

Lesson learned: I try to embrace my inner beach bum. Life’s way too short to forget sunscreen or stress about tides I can’t control. So I remind myself to ride the waves. Float a little. And also remind myself: be a sea turtle in a sea of jellyfish.

So the next time I feel overwhelmed by the pace of life, I picture a sea turtle. Unbothered. Smooth. Unhurried. Full of ancient wisdom and absolutely zero regrets. They’re my spirit animal when I need to slow down, reconnect, or just float through life with a bit more grace—and a lot more fun. And I try to remember: the sea turtle doesn’t rush… but it always arrives.

Now go forth, and turtle on. Blessings y’all – Amy

Hawaii Stole My Heart

From the sun-kissed sand that sparkles both onshore and beneath the waves, to the breathtaking sunrises and sunsets—and every unforgettable moment in between—I’m pretty sure I left a piece of my soul in Hawaii. I honestly can’t remember ever falling so completely in love with a place. There were a few moments when I think Tim wasn’t entirely sure he’d get me on the plane to come home! Truth be told, I seriously considered finding a local realtor while we were there. I may have just discovered my retirement destination. I’m fairly confident Tim and I could work out a schedule like the whales—summers in Alaska, and the rest of the year in paradise.

We stayed at the Royal Hawaiian in Waikiki, and for our first trip, it was absolutely perfect. Everything was within walking distance, and there was never a shortage of things to do. That said, I think next time we might opt for somewhere a bit more remote—maybe the North Shore—for a different pace and feel. We had intentionally left some gaps in our itinerary so we could go with the flow when the mood struck, but we also made sure to plan a few dedicated beach days, even going so far as to pre-rent umbrellas in the hotel’s reserved beach section.

I think the days I spent playing in the water were probably my favorite—though the day our private guide took us to a hidden local beach might top the list. That’s where I sat and watched my beloved sea turtles until Tim finally made us leave because I was burning in the sun. You all know I’ve always been obsessed with sea turtles, but seeing them in their natural habitat was absolutely magical. Watching them effortlessly move with the ocean’s rhythm—their sheer size, their grace—it took my breath away. That moment is forever etched in my memory. Honestly, I think we could all learn a thing or two from sea turtles about how to roll with the waves of life.

I’ve never really been one to spend much time playing in the sand and surf, even with my lifelong love for the ocean. In the back of my mind, I’m always aware that I’m not a strong swimmer—and just how powerful the ocean really is. But the water at our hotel was something else. I could walk way out and still only be in water up to my hips. The ocean was, of course, salty—I told Tim I needed a margarita to go with all that salt while we were splashing around—but it was so incredibly clear. And in the afternoons, when the sand got stirred up, it sparkled beneath the surface like glitter. Absolute magic.

View from the water looking back at our hotel

Of course, we met some truly kind souls at the hotel bar—because you know me, I never go anywhere without picking up a new friend or two. Despite the volume of guests they serve every day, each of the bartenders made us feel genuinely welcome and right at home. I also discovered that Mai Tais aren’t really my thing… but a blended coconut mojito? Absolutely my jam. And definitely a certified nap inducer!

I had some fish tacos that were surprisingly delicious—especially considering how far we were from the South—and I’m pretty sure I ate my weight in pineapple over the course of the week. I’ve never had pineapple that good in my life. It got to the point where I was asking for a plate of it as my breakfast side every morning. And funnily enough, despite eating and drinking whatever I wanted, I came home a few pounds lighter. Tim says it’s because we were so active… but I think it’s more likely my body was just in its happy place. LOL.

Tim’s promised we’ll go back—and soon—but for now, I’m content to channel a little Hawaiian magic into some corner of the house and keep dreaming about the day we return. If you haven’t been yet, do yourself a favor: book the plane ticket. It’s truly a magical place.

Blessings y’all – Amy