memories from the coast that raised me

barefoot rituals from a saltwater childhood

i was born barefoot in a coastal place—California salt in my lungs, sand sewn into the cuffs of my jeans, low tides marking the rhythms of most of my weekends. the beach was not just a location; it was a language my body spoke before i even knew words. it was a place where the ground could be trusted: cool, rough, tender.

one of my grandmothers lived just a half-hour from the ocean. if i stayed with her, the day was likely to end with sea spray in my hair and a collection of treasures clinking in a plastic container. she always brought a bag with a couple cans of Coke, a blanket, tupperware for me to fill with sand, beach glass, the occasional sun-bleached feather. her house was a living museum of beach things—driftwood piled in corners, little bowls of smooth stones, shelves crowded with shells from all over. it probably looked a little chaotic, but back then, i loved it. it felt like the ocean followed us home.

she knew the tides like they were old friends. certain beaches for mornings, others for late afternoon. she’d steer us toward sand dollar shores whenever the moon said so. she would sit on the blanket and sip her Coke, sunglasses pushed up into her hair, and watch while i combed the shore. i hunted with the patience only a child can sustain—for sand dollars, for broken crab shells, for anything that caught the light and seemed to belong to the realm of magic.

later, back at her house, i’d sit cross-legged on the floor and try to make something from the shells. necklaces, little creatures, messy strings of things that always fell apart. it didn’t matter. it was about touching them, arranging them, staying close to the day.

when i moved inland, to the desert stretch of Las Vegas in my mid-twenties, i didn’t realize how much i’d miss that easy intimacy with water. the hush of waves pulling back like a deep inhale, the scattered offerings of shells and stones left behind. i missed the way the ocean made everything else seem less urgent, less sharp.

last summer, wandering the beaches of Ibiza alone, i found myself falling back into that old, sacred rhythm. head bent, barefoot, feeling the pulse of the earth through the soles of my feet. shells winked at me from the sand. i touched them, admired them, but left them there. it didn’t feel necessary to collect them. it felt like enough to see them, to recognize them, to let them stay where they belonged.

i don't collect much now. books, yes. memories, always. but seashells feel different these days. they’re like small prayers, scattered at the edge of the world. unfinished songs the ocean hums to itself. i don't need to pocket them to keep them. they live somewhere softer, somewhere less tangible. i don’t need them in my hands to feel their weight.

there is something about the act of walking a shoreline that suspends time. barefoot, unhurried. the horizon stretched out so far it becomes a feeling rather than a place. the sun leaning against my back. the tide breathing beside me like an old friend, steady and forgiving.

shells are sacred because they remind me of where i come from. of the grandmother who knew the tides by heart. of the child i was, who could spend whole afternoons walking the silver line between land and water, searching for miracles hidden in the sand. they remind me of the version of myself that belonged, effortlessly, to the earth.

i think often about the way the ocean leaves its gifts scattered without expectation. it never demands that you pick them up. it never asks for anything in return. it simply offers. maybe that's what i miss most. that pure, wordless generosity.

the desert has its own beauty, sure. but it is a quieter, harsher kind. it is a beauty you have to earn by surviving it. you have to squint to see it. you have to stand still long enough to feel it. the ocean didn’t make me wait. the ocean's beauty was given freely. a kind of love that didn't need proving.

sometimes i dream of living by the coast again. not necessarily the California coast of my childhood, but some coast. any coast. a place where the air tastes like salt and the mornings begin with the sound of waves moving in their ancient, tireless rhythm.

i imagine a small house, weather-beaten and open to the sea with windows left cracked to let the wind in. i imagine long walks at low tide, head bowed, eyes scanning the sand for the old familiar glint of a shell waiting to be seen.

i don't know if it will ever happen. maybe it will, maybe it won’t. the idea is enough for now. not a plan, not a goal. more like a gentle hum under the surface. a direction, not a destination.

seashells are sacred to me not because they are beautiful, though they are. not because they are rare, though some of them were. but because they are a memory of belonging. to a place, to a person, to a time when the world felt more like a friend than a battlefield. they are tiny reminders that some parts of us—the best parts—were shaped not by what we achieved, but by what we loved. when joy was simple. when love looked like a drive to the beach and a Coke in a cooler and the tide pulling gently at my ankles.

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xo

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