Steps in the Sand

The beach has always been one of those places where I can’t fully hide from myself.

I’ve written posts there before. I’ve sat on the beach and typed into the Notes app on my phone, recording thoughts, feelings, and reflections, things written in real time, at a moment of raw, unfiltered emotion. I’ve written things I’ve shared, and I’ve written things I’ve never let anyone else read.

There have been times when I’ve walked down by myself, sat in the sand, watched the waves, and just thought.

Spending a week at the beach has always been one of the most vulnerable weeks of the year for me. It was that way long before Harrison was born. Looking back, I think it’s been that way ever since I became a dad. So it’s really no surprise that emotional walls come down while I’m there. It’s where I process. It’s where I think. It’s where the things I’ve been carrying tend to surface.

Looking back now, I don’t think it was ever really about the beach. The beach just had a way of exposing whatever I was carrying that year.

When Harrison came along, the beach became something different.

I always wanted him to enjoy it.

Most parents picture their kids running through the sand, splashing in the waves, building sandcastles, laughing without a care in the world. With Harrison, we never really had a gauge for any of that. The beach isn’t exactly designed for a little boy whose body works differently.

For years, there was this weight I carried whenever we went.

I don’t know that I could ever fully define it. I just knew it was there.

Part of it was practical. Harrison struggles to regulate heat, so our beach time has always been limited. We time our visits around the cooler parts of the day. We stay for shorter stretches. The beach has always looked different for us than it does for most families.

But over the last couple of years, something changed.

I wrote a post when Harrison was two years old about some of those feelings. Looking back, I think after that trip I finally let go of a lot of my own expectations. Instead of worrying about what vacation was supposed to look like, we started letting Harrison tell us what vacation looked like.

We’ve stayed in roughly the same place every year, which helps. We know where the playground is for those early mornings when he’s awake before everyone else. We know what works.

Then last year happened.

That’s when we discovered just how much Harrison loves the water.

Not the beach.

The water.

He wanted to be in the pool constantly.

We realized we had a little water dog on our hands.

That changed everything.

Because suddenly I had something I could measure that actually mattered.

I knew he was enjoying himself.

And if he’s enjoying himself, then I’m enjoying myself.

How much time we spent sitting in beach chairs or walking the shoreline suddenly wasn’t important anymore. If Harrison was smiling, then vacation was exactly what it needed to be.

Looking back now, it’s funny.

Last summer was before his surgery. At the time, we thought he was walking pretty well.

But he still wouldn’t walk barefoot.

He’d knee-walk. He’d stand some. He’d walk with shoes on. But barefoot? Not really. It wasn’t something he was interested in trying.

He did love sitting right where the waves met the shore.

He’d sit there and watch the water roll over his feet before sliding back into the ocean.

That was enough.

Or at least we thought it was.

This year was different.

After surgery, after therapy, after everything he’d fought and worked through over the last several months, he had become the kid who wanted to walk barefoot everywhere.

Grass.

Concrete.

Puddles.

Different textures didn’t slow him down anymore.

So, while we had promised ourselves not to put expectations on this trip…I’ll admit it.

We were hopeful.

The first time we carried him down to the sand, we set him down, and off he went.

There wasn’t even a hesitation.

He knew exactly where he wanted to go.

Straight to the water.

He walked across the sand under his own power, stood at the edge of the waves, and simply watched. It was as if he’d always done it.

He watched the water roll over his feet.

He watched it disappear back into the ocean.

As the sand shifted beneath him and his footing became less stable, there was a little uncertainty on his face.

But there wasn’t fear.

There wasn’t frustration.

There was peace.

Since he was a baby, Harrison has slept with ocean sounds every night. It’s always been his white noise. Even today, it’s what he falls asleep to.

Standing there, listening to those same waves, he just looked content.

Even with this major milestone, we actually spent very little time on the beach all week.

Between our older kids, my parents, my brother’s family, and my sister, everyone kind of came and went on different schedules.

Every time we were there, it was just the three of us.

And honestly, I wouldn’t have changed that.

There was something peaceful about it.

Something personal.

For the first time, it felt like Harrison had found his beach.

Not someone else’s version of it.

His.

For years, I couldn’t help but notice what Harrison couldn’t do.

This year, for the first time, all I saw was what he was doing.

He wasn’t being carried everywhere.

He wasn’t limited to where we placed him.

He got to choose.

He got to decide where he wanted to walk.

Where he wanted to stop.

Where he wanted to sit.

Something as simple as walking across the sand gave him freedom.

And with that, that weight I’d carried for years disappeared.

Looking back, I realize it was never something we put on Harrison.

It was something we quietly carried ourselves.

We probably shouldn’t have.

But we did.

It became one of those unspoken milestones that we hoped we’d someday reach.

Five years.

It took five years to get there.

Five years to accomplish something that many families experience within the first year or two.

We got to experience it on our sixth trip to the beach.

And I loved every second of it.

There were plenty of highlights from this vacation.

But none of them compare to watching my son walk barefoot across the beach.

It all happened over Father’s Day weekend. As a dad, I honestly can’t think of a Father’s Day gift that could ever mean more than watching my son do something I wasn’t sure I’d ever get to see.

To see him stop at the edge of the ocean.

To watch the waves roll over his feet.

To know exactly what it took for him to stand there.

Just a few months ago, I wasn’t even sure I’d ever witness a moment that meaningful.

Now I have.

And I’ll never forget it.

I’m not sure anything at the beach will ever top it.

As much as I personally love the beach, I honestly think I could never go back and be okay with that.

Because I experienced the moment I didn’t know if I’d ever get.

The moment that carried the weight of five years while lifting that same weight off my shoulders.

People say time slips through our fingers like grains of sand.

Maybe that’s true.