Letter From the Editor: Aloha

Aloha.

Welcome to the August issue.

When most people hear the word vacation, they think of airline tickets, hotel reservations, passports, and places they've never been. This year I've been focusing on something a little different.

Part of that comes from growing up—and once again living—in a vacation destination.

Not long ago I visited friends in the city. They were wonderful hosts, and I enjoyed every minute of it: sightseeing, hiking, biking, kayaking, shopping, dining, and even spending a night in a wonderfully urban, slightly edgy boutique hotel. It was exactly the change of scenery I needed.

But somewhere during that trip, a funny realization settled in.

To them, their hometown wasn't a vacation destination.

To me, it was.

When I returned home, I realized I could bring that same sense of curiosity back with me.

Vacations are states of mind, not necessarily destinations.

A vacation isn't always somewhere else.

Sometimes it's simply the way we choose to move through an ordinary Tuesday.

This summer has been full of little island landings.

Not tropical islands with palm trees and coconuts, but our own quiet stretch of the Carolina coast—tan, gritty sand along the sound, tall pines swaying in the breeze, trumpet vines climbing fences, marsh grasses dancing with every afternoon wind, sailboats drifting across the water, and the familiar comfort of places that ask nothing of us except to slow down.

Relax.

You're here.

You're home.

Some afternoons you'll find me sitting on a sun-bleached log with my journal while Harris waits patiently for another game of fetch in the water. Other days I'm pedaling my twenty-year-old turquoise mountain bike down familiar trails with my worn canvas sling bag holding nothing more exciting than a notebook, sparkling water, sunglasses, and a beach towel.

I've realized that's enough.

Maybe more than enough.

This year the garden reminded me that success isn't measured only by harvests. The strawberries were sweet while they lasted. The tomatoes gave what they could before summer wore them down. The coneflowers flopped over, were trimmed back, and surprised me with another bloom. Every morning, cardinals and purple finches gather around the little lighthouse bird feeder, reminding me that even the smallest daily rituals become sacred when repeated with love.

Life has changed in other ways too.

I've found myself surrounded by kind people through my new part-time job at a family-owned vintage shop. There are conversations instead of conflict, encouragement instead of criticism, and the quiet pleasure of discussing a well-loved sketchbook, a worn paperback, or a first-press vinyl record that just found its way into someone's collection. It's a place where old things are appreciated instead of discarded.

It has been healing in ways I didn't know I needed.

You may have noticed my wardrobe has become a little more carefree too. Cutoff shorts. Oversized shirts tied at the waist. Big jewelry. A tropical shirt one day, suede western boots the next. Leopard print with pearls. Beach hair. Salt air.

Growing older doesn't mean becoming smaller.

It means becoming more yourself.

At home, we've found our own rhythms.

Espresso with my husband.

Sushi dates with my daughter.

Bridge drives with my son, cherry Coke and blueberry frozen drinks in hand, laughing about absolutely nothing important.

Those simple moments have quietly become the memories I'll treasure most.

The past year also reminded me how quickly life can change. Losing a job I had invested so much of myself in hurt more deeply than I expected. For a while I needed extra comfort, extra rest, and yes... probably a little more wine than was serving me.

But healing has a funny way of arriving.

Sometimes it arrives disguised as a bike ride.

Sometimes as a friendly customer.

Sometimes as a dog dropping a tennis ball at your feet for the hundredth time.

Sometimes as forgiveness—for other people, but especially for ourselves.

As August begins, I'm choosing another gentle reset.

Not punishment.

Not perfection.

Simply returning to the version of myself that feels strongest, healthiest, and most alive. More walks. More swimming. More vegetables. More protein. Less wine. Better sleep. More movement. More noticing.

Not because I have to.

Because I want to enjoy this beautiful life for as long as I possibly can.

This issue is an invitation to embrace your own staycation.

Explore a local trail you've never walked.

Pack a picnic—even if you still keep a reservation at your favorite restaurant.

Bring your own bags when you remember, and give yourself grace when life gets busy and you forget.

Read a library book.

Listen to an old record.

Watch the birds.

Collect little treasures.

Write something down before the moment slips away.

You don't need a passport to discover wonder.

Sometimes we spend so much time dreaming about somewhere else that we forget to fall in love with where we already are.

This little corner of the Carolina coast has become my favorite place to vacation—not because it's exotic, but because it's home.

So here's to everyday adventures.

To worn bicycles that still ride beautifully.

To favorite tote bags.

To sandy feet.

To ordinary mornings that quietly become extraordinary memories.

And wherever this magazine finds you today, I hope you'll take a deep breath, slow your pace, and carry a little bit of aloha with you.

Welcome to your staycation.

With gratitude,

Dawn