Back in January, Jen and I were talking about how we might start exposing the kiddo to some culture—he’s at that age now where he can really appreciate it.

We decided New York City would be a perfect summer adventure: a glittery, chaotic, show-tunes-and-midnight-subway-rides kind of trip.

We didn’t need a dream vacation.
We just needed somewhere to feel more like ourselves again.

So I dove in, planning with a kind of nostalgic, over-the-top joy:

Pride festivities. Macy’s fireworks on the Hudson. Street hot dogs. Frozen hot chocolate. Poet’s Walk, Strawberry Fields.
The electricity of Times Square, awake at all hours.
Hamilton on Broadway. Astoria bagels and folding enormous Ray’s pizza slices.
The Met. A Banksy museum. Dim sum in Chinatown. Walking the Brooklyn Bridge.
And my absolute favorite thing: the free Staten Island Ferry ride past the Statue of Liberty.

I imagined showing my family the parts of the city that made me who I am—after sixteen years of calling it home.

But somewhere between booking tickets and watching the news spiral into “What in the fresh hell is this now?” something inside us started whispering:
Don’t go.

Actually, it was more like a groan.
Like the wind shifting just before a storm.
It said: You’re allowed to choose what feels good. You’re allowed to choose peace.

Jen brought it up in March—just a passing “Should we not…?” but it landed on me.
It echoed the quiet nudge I’d been hoping would just fade away.
And the more I listened, the more I realized—it wasn’t fear talking.
It was alignment.

It’s not weakness to want something gentle.
We weren’t shrinking—we were seeking space to breathe.

It came up again last weekend over a swanky date night dinner.
We circled around it like birds before migration.
And then, yesterday, we finally decided.

We canceled our trip.

We ate the cost for the Broadway tickets like spiritual tapas.
Tried to decode how to use StubHub like confused time travelers.
Miraculously got the money back for the 4th of July fireworks boat party.

And then we booked ourselves a little place on the beach instead.

Even the kiddo, who was super excited to see the city lights, seemed quietly relieved.
Like some part of him had been holding his breath too—and was finally ready to exhale.
A break from the buzz.
An invitation to unplug.

Because barefoot on the sand felt more honest than hustling through Manhattan in July heat with a sensitive, tuned-in teenager and a rising sense of dread.

Because we want this summer to be about sunscreen and shave ice—not crowded streets and sirens.

Because slow mornings with the tide rolling in is the energy we’re calling in now.

Because we can still raise a fist and choose rest.

This isn’t giving up.
It’s tuning in.
To the still, small voice that says:
We need to go where our souls can breathe.

And this year, that’s gonna be sleepy, restorative, enchanted Kauai.

It’s definitely not the city that never sleeps—
I will always love New York,
but this summer we need an island that reminds us it’s okay to slow down.

Flip flops. Snorkels. Beach chairs. Aloha shirts.
And sun-warmed silence.
A different kind of celebration.
The kind that doesn’t need confetti or crowds.
Just peace—and the permission to enjoy it.