On islands and homesickness.

We moved around quite a bit growing up, and I developed a lot of temporary friendships as a result. I don’t know if I’ve sabotaged myself as an adult, but even after 11 years in Austin, it often feels like my dearest relationships are less dear on the other side. The You’re On Your Own, Kid of it all.

Because we hopped around so much, my parents decided that we’d spend two weeks every summer at the same place: Martha’s Vineyard. It provided a consistency I didn’t even know I’d been craving. The reliability made it as good as home to me.

The memories are playing like a montage in my head as I write: listening to musicians at the Tabernacle from our porch across the street, lugging all our beach stuff down the path for a full day at Long Point, fishing for dinner on the Skipper, and leaping to Back Door Donuts after dark for a late night snack.

It was joy. Release. Comfort. Belonging.

At one point my parents seriously considered purchasing a cottage there. Our last trip to the island ended up being the summer before I turned 17, when they were on the precipice of divorce. Every day on Martha’s Vineyard felt like the good old days to me, but I never thought they actually would be. I was heartsick. I still am. Since then, I’ve been back for an extended stay four times: 2015, 2016, 2018, and 2022.

When I moved to Austin, my identity as a New Englander was obvious. Navy was my signature color, just as hydrangeas were my signature flowers. What took me a surprisingly long time to realize is that this nostalgic aesthetic was my way of staying close to only one part of New England: the island. My island.

I spent close to 90 minutes on the phone with my mom this week, who shares my fondness for the Vineyard in a way no one else does. Near the end, I told her that it feels like my childhood best friend is taking all her other friends out for seafood and beach days, while I sit at home just waiting to be invited. (If I’m being melodramatic, then so be it.)

When you get pregnant at 23, it can feel really hard to get ahead financially, especially when your husband’s industry ends up flailing as you get older and become more serious about having a second child. We’re in this weird place where people our age are gearing up to own homes and have kids, while people in our life phase have already accomplished both at least once. We fall in neither camp.

If all goes according to plan, we’ll be empty nesters when we’re 46. We hope to be able to give our kids all the opportunities I had: car, college, internships, etc. This involves the kind of saving we haven’t been able to do yet while paying off Judah’s student loans, navigating our first couple of years self-employed, and dealing with hefty tax bills from the IRS. Oh, and there’s also investments and retirement and such. I’d like to think we’ll be able to concurrently save for a home by the beach (yes, preferably on Martha’s Vineyard).

This kind of upward mobility, in today’s economy at least, seems dubious.

What I hope is that ultimately, this homesickness is motivation. I hope it pushes me to be more efficient, more creative, and more ambitious. I wonder if I’ll pull it off.

Were you waiting for an encouraging or inspiring ending tied up with a bow? Because I was. It makes my heart happy, at least, to share such a fundamental part of my childhood and identity with you. Thank you for allowing me.