In Paris, la rentrée is signified as the return to life from the pause taken in August when many Parisians take an extended vacation, businesses shut down for weeks at a time, and the city collectively exhales from normal life.

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Looking back since my last post, the weeks leading up to our trip was such a lovely pause. I spent a lot of time hidden away behind my computer and the kids played freely in the backyard most days. Of course, there were many moments when I was interrupted every five minutes because they were so bored and wanted to do something different. But it was a special and rare time when my husband didn’t have to travel for work and we were able to slow down and enjoy time together without the constraints of having any schedules to abide by. We both worked at night and slept in each morning. He gave me Saturdays to write alone. And even though his job keeps him locked in his office most of the day, it was a blissful few weeks of togetherness - each supporting one another as we both work through these new career choices that fill our cups.

And then we left for our trip. France was a cumulation of everything I could have hoped it to be. It was beautiful and enriching, a total escape. The kids and I soaked up our daily routine fully - biking to the market each morning to pick up croissants and baguettes from the boulangerie. After our warm pastries, the kids would ride the little carousel in the center of the village and we would shop along the market, picking up cheese and ham to make for lunch when we returned to the house. I loved everything about where we stayed. Everyone biked everywhere. The island was filled with young Parisian families. We didn’t hear one American accent the entire time we were there. We watched sailboats float by and the kids made sandcastles for their Legos for hours under the warm sun. And evenings were filled biking back to the village for dinner where we ate fresh oysters and prawns dipped in thick mayonnaise with bread and frites. It is a place I know I must return to again. A magical village that stole my heart completely. I already miss it so much, especially the food - the bright yellow butter and architecture and wine that doesn’t give you the slightest bit of a hangover. I miss the tiny espresso cups and the little yellow plums we would pick up every day from the grocery store and eat as we biked back from town. I miss swimming in the sea and ice cream cones and alleyways. And I’m so grateful for the time away. And grateful to my parents for taking us. I loved spending time with my little niece who made me laugh constantly and seeing the excitement on Lily’s face when my dad would take her and Char out for a Snickers and lemonade, their secret adventure they thought I didn’t know about.

But there was chaos too. Don’t be fooled by the instagram photos. Over the span of the week the kids threw up six times. I had to change a diaper on a moving train, hoping the older two didn’t get kidnapped while I left them in the train car alone. Wells spiked a fever one day which kept him home and I hoped I converted the metric system properly as I tried to translate the back of the AdvilMed Enfants label from French to English. Walking from the Eiffel Tower back to our hotel, I had one umbrella stroller and three kids who each refused to walk on their own. And we all really missed my husband. It was sad being away without him. I usually experience new places with him. So to find such a beautiful place and not be able to have him there beside me to see it was harder for me than expected. I didn’t realize how overwhelming it would be getting off an airplane with three kids crying, an outfit covered in puke in one hand, needing to carry four backpacks and a carry-on while the two boys collapsed in the aisle every three rows. I cried a lot. My emotions were amplified fully. We came back from Paris with creamy mustard from Le Bon Marché, new striped pants, children’s books from our Parisian baby friends, and a French virus that has had me coughing like a crazy person - making the drive home a very long day for everyone. I couldn’t believe when we pulled into our driveway Sunday evening that we had driven through the still-dark streets of Paris that very morning. What magic this world brings. And as soon as we walked through the door during a torrential downpour, the house smelled of sausage and pasta and my husband and golden retriever were there to greet us energetically, making everything okay again.

I’m writing this post on an overcast day in Vermont at the end of August. The changing of the seasons is evident all around us. There were a few yellow leaves on the path in the woods yesterday morning. I bought red wine instead of a dry white! And the kids started school yesterday. Today, my oldest, Lily, turns seven years old - impossible to believe. It is clear after only two mornings of waking early to dress and fill water bottles before the bus that the slowness of our summer has dissipated and the busy routine has started again. We landed Sunday and John left at 4 a.m. Monday for a work trip. He returned last night at 1 a.m. The change is here. The pause is over, and the return to normal life is back in full swing.

Yesterday, I watched in amazement as my middle child, Charlie, stepped courageously on the school bus with his sister, so thrilled to be joining her in elementary school. They were both so ready and excited to start school again. And once the bus drove away, and Wells went off to play with trucks upstairs, I realized how ready I was for the return to our routine too. There are so many times during the year when I am either looking to the past or the future, counting down to something on the calendar in the weeks or months ahead. But I think after our trip away, I feel so content being in the present. I know the new academic year brings stress - busy schedules and homework and after-school activities again. Alarm clocks are back on. But this time we are ready, finally, for la rentrée. I am thrilled over early dinners and bedtimes. But I’m most excited to get back into my writing rhythm again. To put my phone back on silent mode at night. And suddenly, after months of summer, I have time again to simply walk the dog without having to also carry a helmet and scooter that has been abandoned halfway down the road. It feels nice. So we will watch the changing leaves and focus inward again. I hope you all do too.

Books I Read Since My Last Post: June Baby, The Gulf of Lions, Whistler, The Correspondent. All amazing.

Currently reading: John of John

Things happening with Maybe We Meant It: I just picked the audiobook narrators last week which felt so incredibly surreal. I still can’t believe anything that happens during this process is actually happening to my book. I also want to thank so many of you who pre-ordered a copy. It means the world and makes me tear up knowing how many of you have already supported me on this journey – and we still have eight months to go (phew. stress. omg!) You can pre-order or learn more on my website www.brianaleclerc.com or follow my writing instagram account @brileclercwrites. And thank you, as always, for reading this post! Wishing you all a beautiful start to the new school year.

XO,

Bri

Up until Saturday morning I had a slightly panicked feeling as the days started creeping closer to our week away because I knew that it meant we were reaching the halfway mark of our summer - something I was not even remotely ready for. The start of the summer felt like a spinning hamster wheel of activity. I purposely booked the kids in camps because all of their friends were doing it and I embraced the - let go - have fun - lean in - say yes - to everything and everyone in our beautiful community. The days were filled with camp carpooling, spontaneous playdates, swim lessons, and meeting at the river or someone’s pool for a last minute barbeque. The weather was hot and we swam and played and watched the fireworks. We ate hotdogs and sour-cream-and-onion-dip several days in a row and I felt that incredible nostalgic feeling of happiness living in a place that feels like time travel.

As the buzzing high from the Fourth subsided, I found myself needing to focus in - to slow down and work on my book and catch up on summer reading (some great ones btw - Abby Offsides, This Is A Love Story, The Days I Loved You Most, and Same As It Ever Was). The kids weren’t in camp and they played with the hose and made mud puddles on the side of our yard together for most of the day, transitioning from fully clothed to stark naked while they bounced from the trampoline and into the cold chill of the sprinkler. I worked on my second novel, finally feeling it reach that phase in the draft where the goopiness is starting to form into something with shape - I have been having so much fun with it. But last week as I looked at the calendar, I couldn’t believe we had already made it to beach week. Because it meant when we got home, it would somehow be the last week of July and I felt like I hadn’t spent any time with my kids yet. I was feeling this desperate need to cling to the heat and everything that summer represents. And realized that if I didn’t start consciously spending individual time with each of my children, specifically the older two, then I would feel such a wave of sadness when the summer ends, knowing they would be returning to their days in the classroom with friends and after-school activities. I felt this primal desire to pull them closer into my orbit. Because this is the only summer Wells will ever be two, Charlie five, and Lily six.

Friday afternoon, John took the boys to his parents house a night early because he’ll be traveling for part of this week, so Lily and I stayed in Vermont so I could attend a writing event, allowing us a rare mother-daughter date night together. It was heaven. We went out to dinner together to our new favorite Raman spot, shared edamame and ordered this milky lemonade that fizzed and was delicious. We were the only two in the restaurant for most of the meal because it was 4:45p and we sat there for an hour, chatting about whatever we wanted without the interruption of two little brothers. When dinner was over we went to our bookstore and Lily picked out a chapter book and read it in a big velvet-blue chair in the kids room while I sat with the ladies from my writing group and listened to Caitlin Shetterly discuss her latest novel, The Gulf of Lions - which I can’t wait to dive into later this week. After leaving the book-signing, Lily wanted dessert. So we went to Ben & Jerry’s and each got a cone. We sat together in the back of the car while we licked away at the melting cookie dough and when we got home, I started June Baby while Lily sat beside me and watched Paddington in Peru. By nine, we were under the covers, falling asleep together in my bed.

It was a midsummer dream. Completely perfect. And I loved having one on one time with her - something that feels so fleeting these days. Something I don’t get enough of. The only time we are guaranteed alone time together is when I tuck her into bed at night - but that still means there are two other boys who need time with me in their rooms and depending on the night of the week I’m usually distracted too - thinking about getting downstairs so I can write or read or get a fleeting forty-five minutes with John as we watch a show together (we’re currently watching Normal People for the first time ever, I’m not sure how I’ve never seen it but am completely enraptured by it in a life-changing kind of way and can’t wait to finish it next weekend). It seems even when we aren’t busy, we are still busy. Distracted. And getting that night alone with Lil filled me in such a way that I had desperately been reaching for only days prior.

This morning as the kids sit around the breakfast table talking about their favorite ice cream flavors, somehow the halfway mark of summer feels less intimidating. It is so nice to smell the ocean again. To bury my feet in the sand with a book in hand while the kids play with a bucket and pail. And when the week ends and we return to the green mountains, instead of feeling panicked about soaking in summer, I think we will fall into the rhythm together of simply noticing and being. I can always tell what’s about to happen in the seasons from the signs on the hiking trail on our street. I walk it weekly all year round. Every season. And as Lily and I walked the trail together on Saturday morning before we got on the road, we noticed that the leaves looked darker, drier than they had the week prior. But it didn’t stop us from embracing the day. We sang out loud together in the car, smiling and laughing, and looking forward to everything that the rest of the summer will gift us.

XOXO,

Bri

This week, the after-school activities have ended. And next, summer will officially begin for the kids. Our days will be filled primarily with nothing to do. Mornings can be long. Breakfast served whenever we like. I’ll let the kids play upstairs together while I write (in theory). We’ll take bike rides down to the pond. Hike with our dog. Pick up sandwiches at the Union Store. I’ll sit out on the patio at night with my husband while we exhale from the day. We can base our mood and activities around the weather. We won’t have to get in the car some days. Like the first page of a blank journal, we can fill it how we like. There are two trips planned. One to the North Shore with John’s extended family in July. Another abroad in August with mine. The kids are signed up for only two weeks of camp so far. Maybe I’ll add more. Maybe I wont. We’ll see. Right now, most of the summer remains blank and open. Which feels right and good.

Last week I met with my writing group, we call it our Evening Salon, where we read excerpts of pieces we are working on while sipping on Vino Verde wine from Portugal and eat the dinner each of us has contributed to - soup, salad, bread and dessert. We are a group of women that range in age from mid-thirties to seventies. When talking about the summer ahead, my good friend, Caren, gave me advice on how she was able to still instill the quiet hours in the afternoons when her boys were little. I still have one (sometimes two) nappers at home. So that time of day feels necessarily to uphold so that I can hopefully stick to the same schedule that I have now (we’ll see how it goes, fingers crossed). But I can already feel my creativity beginning to kick up a notch, just knowing that the other responsibilities that normally fall on my plate during the school year will be left alone for a few months. I notice that when I allow for time to unfold around us without having to look at the clock, instead of thinking about schedules, I focus more on what is around me. Writing things down in my notes app. Scribbling something on a small yellow pad of paper. Ideas. Future lines. A description of a flower growing furtively in the yard.

Once the end of the school year arrives, I always wonder why I did so much. Why is it that only in the summer I teach myself to say no for the sake of just relaxing with my kids? I want to catch up on the time I missed with them while they were in school. And I can see it begin to unfold in their attitudes. When they have reached the end of the rope, just as I have, and they simply just want to chill. I get it, I say. In a few days, we will be there. We will chill.

When I look back on my childhood, the thing I cherish most are my quiet summers. There were always a few weeks of tennis camp in July, but the rest of the time was spent driving down the NJ Parkway to the beach to visit both sets of grandparents. It always felt like an escape. Being able stay up until midnight reading in bed. Taking long walks past the jetties with cousins and aunts. Long days plopped in a chair in the sand. Ice cream every night. I remember watching music videos on MTV in the morning, listening to the radio, writing in my journal. Every summer gave me the chance to find myself again. I still have about a dozen of old journals in my house that I love to pick up now and then to see what I was doing, listening to. The summers are engrained in me and the school year was just…time passing by.

Last weekend I returned to my grandparent’s beach house in Mantoloking for my cousin’s wedding. It is the house that inspired the one I created in my debut novel, Maybe We Meant It. I woke at five on Friday and drove down to my parent’s house to pick up my mom on the way down to the beach. Two minutes before we were ready to get on the road I asked my dad how my grandfather was doing. Not well, he said. My mom and I decided we would visit him before we got gas. He had just turned ninety-seven the day before. I spent time with him over Christmas, and again in February, but the timing of being so near, right after his birthday, made it feel suddenly essential to visit him. I knew the moment we walked into his room in the nursing home what was happening. I had seen it before with my other grandparents. As I kissed him goodbye, on his forehead, I knew that it was probably for the last time. I spent most of the drive thinking of him and when we arrived at the house and I could see him everywhere. He loved the beach. I pictured him in his tennis whites sitting on the front porch. Of driving to church together on Sundays. Corn on the cob and Jersey tomatoes with dinner. I met my cousin, the bride, at the tent and we talked about him as we tied the cushions to the back of every chair together. I was caught in a time capsule all weekend, feeling like a thirteen year old again, wondering how so much time had passed since those vivid memories that cultivated the girl I grew up to be now.

Saturday morning, I met my husband in town after a walk to pick up his car before he went to golf. As I pulled into our driveway I got the call from my mom that my grandfather had passed away. I stood beside the flowers as the emotions washed over me. Just moments before, we couldn’t fit both the dog and stroller in the trunk, so I left the stroller in town. I had to go back for it. Char was having a meltdown. I told Lily the news and asked her, for the first time ever, if she could stay home alone with Charlie for the three minutes it would take for me to drive back to get the stroller. She promised they would be okay. John called as I reached the club and he found me, walking quickly to me and pulling me into a hug. He held me tight as I cried into his arms. The kids are home alone, I said. He told me he loved and I left. When I pulled back into the driveway, there was a photograph taped to the front door. In those small, quick minutes that I had been away, Lily had found a photograph of my grandfather from a photo album in her closet. It was taken about five years ago. He was holding her in the jewelry store, smiling. She was about a year old in the picture. She taped it for me to make me feel better. She is so special like that.

I spent the morning sitting outside while a humid rain drizzled onto the patio as the endless memories from my childhood with my grandpa came rushing at me. Sitting on his patio by the pool during quiet summer afternoons with him and my grandmother when Lily was a baby. Sharing a glass of Pinot Grigio. Playing in the old attic on the third floor as a child with mermaids. Exploring the massive apple tree in the front yard. Visits to their house always felt like magic. I have a voicemail saved on my phone from him when he heard the news that I got a book deal. I listened to it. It was from last October. I can hear his smile and laugh through the phone. He ends the call by saying, “Thanks very much for all of your love, goodbye honey.”

The green of the Vermont mountains are thick and settled now. On Saturday, the sky was gray and warm and the first sounds of crickets were whispering in the tall grass in our neighbor’s field. A bee buzzed against the screen in the mudroom next to my desk as our Golden watched it, attempting to jump up and bite it when it got close to her nose. Fresh basil sat growing in a pot on the patio. I hope to make pesto all the time soon. The kids spent most of the morning playing with a hose in the rain. I brought Wells in when he became too cranky. He fought a nap, and I worried I wouldn’t have time to myself that afternoon to grieve. I fell asleep in the twin bed in Wells’ room, the sound of the tires hitting the wet pavement outside pulling me to sleep. The laundry pile was high that day. The mudroom scattered with muddy shoes, Tupperware, a fuzzy fox tale from the ballet recital, legos, and library books that the kids checked out and are probably overdue. But instead of cleaning the house I picked up the latest book I was reading, This Is A Lover Story, and decided to finish it. It was poetic and quiet. It was the perfect book for that particular day. I loved it so much.

Summer’s arrival is coming at just the right time. Because she creates the memories that shape us. The ones that heal us. The ones that we remember. She reminds us how fleeting and beautiful life is. Sunday morning I went for a walk in the cloudy weather with my dog. I believe that my grandparents return and visit me in the form of animals after they pass. My mom’s parents are cardinals, always hopping about in a little pair together. Just as Lucy and I reached the pasture at the top of our road where the cows graze, a large hawk flew overhead. It silently circled me for a moment before it spread its wings and soared away into the open sky. Then again, later that evening, I stood in front of the sink in the kitchen and the hawk returned, flying towards me before turning. It felt like a sign. Today the sun is out and bright. Warm and welcoming. And I feel so grateful for summer’s embrace.

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The past few months have been wildly busy - with travel, deadlines, research, and a lot of volunteering on my end. When I envisioned Charlie’s fifth birthday I selfishly imagined it would be the same way that I like to celebrate my own birthday, with a quiet family dinner and candles to blow out. But then I realized, this is Char. And he’s been excited for this day for months. So as the weeks inched closer to the 30th, I started embracing all of his requests, knowing how how happy it would make him to celebrate his special day the way he envisioned it: a playdate with his pre-k class at the park, a chocolate cake and, most importantly, more Star Wars legos to add to his collection.

I was never a Star Wars fan growing up. I saw one of the movies once when I was about ten years old. My dad took my cousin and me to see Revenge of the Sith when he was visiting from Arizona. I’m not sure why my cousin was at our house in New Jersey instead of the beach, but I remember going to the local theater and watching the film without really having any idea what was going on. When the movie ended, so did my relationship with Star Wars. That is, until my son Charlie was born. He’s been obsessed since right before he turned two. There was never a Sesame Street or Bluey phase for Char - it was always the Mandalorian, Boba Fett, Stormtroopers and Sand People that grabbed his attention. He has always marched to the beat of his own drum and falls so categorically into the role of middle child.

Charlie’s older sister, Lily, plays the leading star in so many occasions being the first to experience everything and his little brother is such a hilarious two-year old who mandates so much attention from me, which I give to him because oh my gosh, he’s the baby so how can I not? The oldest and youngest were always relatively easy - with sleeping, potty training and eating their dinners. Char has always been slightly more difficult with all of the above since he was born. He finds a routine that he likes and sticks with it holistically. Like his cup of juice in the morning and his attachment to his little elephant lovie, named Eddie. He needs his sippy cup at his bedside table before he gets under the covers, his little legos placed delicately on his windowsill. Currently, he stores them all in two jewelry pouches and packs them in the front pocket of his backpack each morning to bring to school. As far as I know he never takes them out to play with during the day, but it’s a comfort for him knowing they’re there.

The other night, we were going through the motions of his bedtime routine and I got under the covers to tuck him in in the way he requests every night, laying in his twin bed. My body curled around his little frame as his brother was banging on the walls in his crib next door and I held him, thinking about this time of year - when we get to celebrate all that he is. I remember when he was about six months old and still living in New Jersey, we drove up to my parents new home in Vermont one late October weekend. The house was still very much under construction with only a few outlets working. We were supposed to wait until closer to the holidays to sleep there, but we missed Vermont so much and yearned deeply to return to the place that made us feel like us. Charlie wasn’t sleeping through the night and I remember holding him as I walked around the house in the darkest hours of the night - 2am, 3am, 4am - it felt like the night would go on forever. I felt like a mad Miss Havisham. My other two always instantly fell asleep with me as babies if I held them in their rocking chair or brought them into our bed. But Char, being Char, was different and no matter how hard I tried, his eyes would remain open as we walked through the rooms of the unfurnished house for hours. Finally, just as dawn was approaching, he fell asleep with me on the couch and we were both able to get a few hours of sleep before waking for the day.

Now, our roles have reversed. I whisper I love you into his ear and he falls asleep instantly. And whenever I can’t sleep in the middle of the night I go up to his bed. As soon as I’m near him my worries settle and I fall asleep. He’s such a deep sleeper and unlike his little brother and sister who squirm and kick and rustle the sheets, he remains calm and still in his dream world until he rises for a new day. And it feels like this is exactly what raising little ones feels like - some days and weeks and moments feels so long and lonely. That feeling when everyone in the house is asleep and you’re the only one awake sometimes feels like too much. But now, I think back to those baby years in my phone and I can barely hold onto that moment when Charlie was little. It was so fleeting - that time between having my first and my third.

This time of year is similar in a way. Spring has been taking its time up here - there were a few snow flurries yesterday morning to give you an idea. And some days I wonder when the spell will break and we’ll be able to put the jackets back into storage. I’m not entirely sure how to explain the winter. It felt like the baby years, with long, cold weeks. But when I look back on those winter months I’m not entirely sure where the time went or what I accomplished. The ski pass I bought wasn’t used as often as I expected and I can barely remember what movies or soups we enjoyed - did I even make chili? I can’t remember. It felt like a whirlwind of sitting at the computer screen to racing to the pick-up line. It was long and quick all at once. But regardless of the cold season, the strength of the changing seasons is ever present and the green is returning to the mountains again.

This weekend I took the time to focus on the little things I enjoy that I sometimes put off because it often feels like there is too much laundry to fold and the dog’s shedding hair is clumping into little creatures around the house. But yesterday, our family stood in the cold rain and watched as our now five year old ran through the skate park with his classmates, all smiles and joy. And in the afternoon, the sun came out and I went outside with Wells to finally pull the weeds from the flower garden I started last summer. As my fingernails began to clump with fresh dirt and the worms appeared in the soil, it felt so good to slow down and take in the simple joy of gardening with a toddler. Of hearing his reaction to a bird and, when I commented, “It’s a nice day, isn’t it?” His response (as is to everything these days) was, “Yeah, right?”

And last night as the exhaustion from the long week took hold of each of us, I got under the covers with my five year old and made a mental note to try to turn off the never-ending to-do list and overflowing calendar and promise myself that as the days grow longer and the mountains turn green and lush again - that I find the time to take in what actually brings me joy each day. A solo walk with my dog. The tulips and daffodils that brighten the lawns around town. A new song that makes me want to play it over and over again in the car - loud and with the windows down (Dashboard by Noah Kahan is so fun). And the quiet moments of motherhood that often times can feel exhausting and relentless. Like finding the tiny little Lego piece that is lost somewhere in the bedroom. Because it’s all so fleeting and wonderful. So now, because our family does celebrate the Star Wars love that never seems to diminish with each passing year and birthday - May the Fourth be with you! :)

XOXO

Bri

Despite there still being about a foot of snow in the backyard, it feels as though the winter grip has finally begun its release. The birds are now chirping from somewhere above in the trees. And the temperatures in the ten-day forecast have finally risen to the thirties and forties for the first time in what feels like months. With it being Valentines Day today, I thought this winter letter could focus on the unexpected acts of love that have crossed my path recently. Because even though this winter has been frigid and long (like frostbite cold) and the news has felt heavy - the biggest personal lesson I have taken away from this winter has been the kindness in the strangers I have met. And the warmth that I have felt during this very cold season.

On a freezing Wednesday morning at the end of January, I woke up feeling off. It was one of those mornings when I felt it in my chest. I was on the verge of tears for no reason at all as I got in the car to drive to a school-related meeting for the parent volunteer group. At around 8:50am, I was driving down a long unpaved country road covered in ice when I completely lost control of the wheel. I remember as I plowed into an open field and the windshield turned completely white with snow that I simply had to wait to see what was about to happen next. It was one of those slow-motion moments when my thinking became sharp and clear and I rationally envisioned the different scenarios play out in my mind - flipping the car or getting injured. I braced myself for the unexpected. Thankfully, when the car finally stopped I was fine. The car was fine (sort of - it will be in the shop for a day next week). But I was stuck in a snowbank a few feet deep, wearing sneakers, on a road without any cell service. I checked the temperature on the dashboard, it was 2 degrees Fahrenheit.

As I stepped out of the car, I wondered what I was going to do. I wasn’t afraid, per se, since it was only nine in the morning. I knew eventually someone would find me. But I couldn’t email the person I was supposed to be meeting to let her know what had happened. I couldn’t text my husband. And I had no way of calling a tow-truck. Had this happened at night, I definitely would have been in full-blown panic mode - surrounded by darkness and dangerous temperatures. What would I have done? Sat in the car until my gas ran out? Walked and knocked on the closest house with lights on? Luckily, I had just filled the tank the day before so I knew I had some time. I tried to shovel my way out in my sneakers. My ankles and toes instantly began to tingle as I sunk into the snow to dig around the tires. But every time I tried to reverse or drive forward, the car engine would rev loudly, but nothing would happen.

Lucky for me, the first person to drive by was a sheep farmer who lived down the road. He was on his way to pick up his sick daughter from school, but would be back in about an hour and had a tractor that could pull me out. So with nothing to do but wait, I got back into my car, my legs numb, and turned on the heat and wrote in my journal and waited the hour and twenty minutes in the field. I took pictures of the sky. I took pictures of myself. I noticed the way the wind blew the top layer of snow off of the field and into the road. It is one of the prettiest views in the summertime. I love driving along this particular street when everything is green and the sky feels so big and blue. But it felt different on this cold, winter day. There were no animals or tracks in the field. The trees were completely bare from any color. The mountains, a gray shadow. I took note of how many cars passed during the hour and a half that I was stuck. Only five. I’m sure if it had been nine o’clock at night there may not have been any. Most of the passing cars were locals and understood that I was trapped without any cell service and offered their help. And when the hour passed, as promised, I saw the large tractor come rumbling down the hill with the farmer, his daughter, and dog riding with him. The man who saved me got down into the snow with his thick canvas pants and hooked up my car to his tractor, pulling me free to safety.

I learned a few things that day. The first was a quick reminder that we really have no idea what’s coming next - despite how much we try to control the outcome. And to maybe get an emergency kit for the car. But most importantly, I was reminded that even in the middle of winter, when everything seems dark and cold, there is still so much light. Maybe it is a sentiment to the beauty of Vermonters, but most people will stop and help you. And the kindness I was shown from a total stranger that day left me feeling warm with gratitude - as did the very hot shower I took to get the feeling back in my legs when I returned back home two hours later. And I’ve noticed it in all sorts of places this winter. In the way the full moon brightens a snow-covered field. Or the warmth from the fire at the end the day. The friend who watches your kids when you’re panicking over a writing deadline. And the kindness from a stranger, taking time out of his day to help me. It is a beautiful reminder to do the same for others.

(lol)

This past weekend I flew to Paris for a quick forty-eight hour trip sans children and husband. The first day, I spent in a magic bubble with my sister and cousin. We spent hours walking through St. Germaine, talking only about our dreams and fears over steak frites and read each other our fortunes for the year ahead with a book that my sister bought on the street in a beautiful archway near Place des Vosges. On Sunday, they flew home and I was on my own. And again, I was presented with the kindness of strangers - this time from the other side of the world. I met a friend of a friend for lunch who toured me through her beautiful life in Paris. Showing me what it is like to be a local and what she and her friends do together around the city. I felt so comfortable and happy that afternoon and was, again, surprised by the warmth from someone who could have spent forty-five minutes with me, but instead was kind enough to spend hours and walk me all the way to my next endeavor because she knew my phone was on airplane mode and I had no idea where I was going. Afterwards, I took an art class with local Parisians. I was the only American and the only person who didn’t understand French. But despite being unable to understand most of what was being said during the two-hour class, I felt completely comfortable as we sat around the table and created art together, and how the thoughtful teacher went out of her way to translate her lesson for me.

And that night, I sat alone at a bistro in the Marais taking in the room and people around me. As my dinner was served, two Canadian girls turned to me we talked for close to an hour. By the time we had finished our meals, we were exchanging numbers and sharing the same chocolate mousse as our waiter gave us each a shot of something sweet and delicious. I walked home that night feeling so much appreciation for the city of love. And the next day, when my flight was delayed, I turned to the woman sitting beside me on the plane and introduced myself. She was returning home from visiting her parents in Mumbai and we talked about raising children and how it feels to get older. Once we took off, I tuned into French romantic comedies (which were so good!) but whenever we would occasionally make eye-contact, we would always smile before returning to our screens or dozing back off to sleep.

So, this Valentines Day, give the one you love a big smooch on the lips. Help a stranger who looks like they could use it. Say hello to someone eating alone. Hug the little ones in your life. Give your puppy an extra long pet behind the ear. Because it will warm you up even on the coldest of winters nights.

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XO

Bri

The week between Christmas and New Years can go two ways for me - some years, it feels incredibly depressing and anxiety inducing. While other years, it’s the exact reset I need to relax and prepare for the upcoming year ahead. Last year, it was one of the hard ones. I found myself feeling lost in all of my relationships. Unsure how to spend my days. I didn’t know who I was or if my dream of writing would ever come to fruition. Social plans sent me into a cycle of uncertainty. Who was I? What did I want 2025 to look like? The upcoming year was a complete blank slate - there were no trips planned. I didn’t have any weekends away or reunions to look forward to. It was just, open. Empty. And I didn’t know how to fill it.

As the year began and the days passed, I used writing to ground me each morning in the winter darkness. It was the one thing I could do each day that would open my chest and allow me feel like, me. I was rigidly disciplined last winter and spring. Pulling myself out of bed each morning when all I wanted to do was sleep. There was a voice in my head that felt so determined. I would Mel Robbins 3,2,1, and get up. Because if I got out of bed, then maybe something good would happen. It was the one piece of my day that I could control. The one thing I could accomplish in the midst of questioning what to do next with my life. And, then, one day around the start of summer, I felt the shift. And a piece of me that kept second-guessing what the heck I was doing everyday was shed and released like a sky lantern into the wind.

I’ve been seeing all over social media that we’re saying goodbye to the year of the snake. The horse is upon us. The Lunar New Year isn’t until mid-February this year, but I can’t help but focus on the symbolism of it all. It was a hard year for many people in my life. And despite all of the pinch-me moments that happened with my book, the first half of the year was personally difficult too. I had to dig deep and think about what really mattered. Who really mattered. And looking back, it feels very fitting that it was the year of the snake. Emotionally, there were so many parts of me that needed shedding. Heaviness and resentments and disappointments that needed letting go of.

I spent a lot of 2025 focusing inward. When I look back upon the year the things that stand out most are the quiet moments - walks through the woods with friends, heart to hearts over good local Vermont wine, plunging in the river for the summer solstice, fire pits in the backyard with the kids. I hope to remember that John and I loved to listen to the song Lonely Island by Amble together, and that there was so much comfort sitting in the den with a good show after a long week. Art kept me grounded. Movies and songs, and of course novels. There were so many good books (my top 10 favorites were: Wild Dark Shore, Finding Grace, Heart the Lover, Writers and Lovers, All the Colors of the Dark, Isola, Blue Sisters, The Wedding People, God of the Woods, and Amazing Grace Adams). It was a shedding year. A transitional year. Because last New Years, I didn’t have an agent or an editor. I had a kindergartener and two little boys at home. Wells was only fifteen months old last Christmas. But despite still being very much in the thick of mothering, I felt somewhere deep inside that I was ready for whatever was meant to happen next.

2026 will be the year of the horse. During the warmer months, our neighbors care for two horses in the large open field across from our house. I’m lucky that each day when I look out the window, their graceful presence is there to ground me. Horses are beautiful creatures. Strong and powerful. Calm and reserved. They watch us intently throughout the day, gently greeting us as we step out of the house each morning. They graze and play in the field - observant and kind. They see what we sometimes can’t. I look forward to a year filled with their majesty and kindness. And can already feel its positive energy as I look upon the year ahead, which feels so different from year’s past. It’s already so much busier than last year- filled with trips and travels to new and familiar places. Weddings and birthdays, celebrations and family gatherings. There is so much love. And I still can’t believe I get to spend it writing, not just for myself anymore. That I’ll be promoting a story that is so deeply personal it scares me just as much as it excites me.

This year, the week between Christmas and New Years has been utterly relaxing. It has been exactly the reset our family has needed. Filled with rest and patience. We spent the first few days of break back in New Jersey which was overflowing with cousins, roasts and potatoes, and the magic of Christmas shining in my children’s eyes. It felt so good to be surrounded by the laughs and smiles of my large extended families. And since returning to Vermont, we have been embracing the slower pace of winter again. Long, lazy mornings in pajamas. Winter activities on the slopes and in the rink. Afternoons in sweaters by the fire. Cozy dinners out and movies every night. The other morning, I went cross-country skiing with our golden on the golf course across from our house, and I couldn’t help but feel this overwhelming sense of peace as I slid through the fresh snow. The mountains were cast in a beautiful shade of purple and the dark waters in the stream snaked through the course with light fluidity. It was as though it had already shed the heaviness of the past. It trickled and flowed towards the new year without anything holding it back. The only remaining plants and flowers stood dormant beside the stream’s banks, their brown shades contrasting beautifully against the pure white snow. Reminding me to stay present and enjoy this time of rest. The kids have been playing together for hours around the house. And soon, the afternoon light will disappear behind the mountains into the winter darkness. But it won’t be dark when the night arrives. Because there is so much light guiding us forward.

Thanks to everyone who started following along this past year and gave me the courage to keep going. It’s hard to be vulnerable and open online. To take risks knowing that the world is so full of opinions and judgements. But I’ve also found that there is so much beauty in it too. And when we find something or someone that feels good and right, it’s important to keep it close. And to simply shed the rest.

Happy New Year!

XO, Bri

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I called her back, pacing back and forth past our mailbox alongside the two horses who live across the street from us, listening to the news that the wish I had harbored and buried deep in my bones was coming true. When I turned back to the house, John watched me from the window and the only thing I could think to do was lift my hands up and smile. He ran out the front door and pulled me into a hug on the front porch as I burst into tears, crying into his shoulder. All of the hoping and wishing of becoming an author was finally happening. Is happening. And I’m so incredibly grateful.

MAYBE WE MEANT IT is a love story and family drama set in the days following the death of a family matriarch, about a brother and sister who set off to recover their grandmother’s missing diamond before anyone realizes it’s missing, the surprising circumstances that led to its disappearance, and a college ex-girlfriend who has been harboring a life-altering secret. It’s Taylor Swift’s Marjorie meets All Too Well - it’s about love and motherhood; my summers growing up at the beach and my deep love for Vermont. It represents so much of the hero’s journey I have traveled on rediscovering who I am, and who I want to be.

I wrote the first chapter of this book seven years ago during my first year of marriage when my husband was away traveling for work. That night, I sat alone at my island in Jersey City recalling what it felt to be in college. I dabbled here and there with this story that kept popping into my head about a missing diamond ring. But it wasn’t until becoming a mother that I dove head first into the deep waters of writing a novel. This book represents everything I have learned in the six years since welcoming my daughter into the world and was written during the early dawn hours before my children woke up, squeezed into nap times, and edited in bed after everyone was tucked in at night. I wasn’t sure what would happen to this project, but I knew I never wanted to give up on it.

On Monday, I sat in the eighty degree sunshine in the company of the peak Vermont foliage and watched my two boys play together at park. I sat on a bench with my journal, scribbling every feeling as the boys called out my name every few seconds to watch them from the top of the slide. And I felt as they must feel, ready to push off and rush down - full of life, and full of joy. I am so grateful to have the opportunity to bring this deeply personal story into your worlds. The novels I read are like dear friends to me, placed at my bedside table to keep me company before bed. I can’t believe you’ll get to meet my characters soon and hope they become as good of friends to you as they have been to me.

To follow along this journey, I have created a new instagram account @briana.leclerc - it should be fun and filled with all things writing, books, sad songs, good rainy days, and beautiful landscapes.

Thank you, as always, for reading!

With endless gratitude,

Bri

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I’ve found these last days of summer before school starts filled with a mix of emotions - trying to run the errands that I’ve been putting off all summer when the days were simply too nice to spend anywhere but near a pool or stream. And soaking in the final days with everyone home before they return to lives that I’m not a part of. We’ve been learning to ride bikes at the park and trying to keep the afternoons filled with imaginary play. And with the start of a new school year approaching my brain is buzzing in preparation for the fall. I’ve been moving furniture (sorry John), searching for prints and paintings that have still yet to be hung up after moving into our house almost a year ago, and organizing closets that have been kept sloppy all summer when the kids change from outfit to bathing suit and back again at least twice a day.

And, as always, time has slipped away too quickly. It was a summer filled with every emotion that encapsulates the preciously long days that are so cherished when we live in a place that requires sweaters and afternoon cups of tea for most of the year. June was filled with quintessential camp days and river plunges with friends. I attempted to grow my first flower garden and tried painting our new little picket fence (which I sort of failed at doing both, but fell in love with the act of spending hours under a sun hat getting my hands dirty). I assumed at this point in my Vermont journey there would be an overflowing vegetable garden with chickens and a cat. Clearly, I’m not even close. But each year I’ll continue to learn and hopefully the little plants in my life will learn to grow with me.

July was filled with books that touched me deeply and sun-soaked days at the beach. Reunions with cousins. Long walks. Ice cream every night. I began the practice of journaling again and the act of disappearing - getting lost in days with my thoughts and family. There was good news. Bad news. Sad news. Wishes and prayers. And I reflected, as we marked another anniversary living in Vermont, all that the green mountains has taught us all during these last two years:

Moving and trying something new is always worth doing - I have grown so much since living here. I have become brave - so much braver than I ever thought I could be. I have met people and found friendships that are deep and raw and real. Nature has been another good friend to me - teaching me and my children how to appreciate the world around us. We are, for sure, crunchier granola bars than we were two years ago. We have been tested and tried in ways we didn’t expect too. Challenging and shaping us. I have changed, we all have, but I think I have found the girl I was at fourteen again - daydreaming and wishing for a life like Elizabeth Bennett’s as she walks in the meadow at dawn towards Mr. Darcy. I have grown to love the early morning hours, rather than dread it. And after two years immersed in the pocket of life here, I’m focused on reconnecting with those who I haven’t seen in far too long. Those who I have drifted farther from the sea than I would have liked. Distance can be hard, even when it’s right.

Yesterday, my two oldest picked out their water bottles and backpacks for the coming year ahead, and I spent the rainy morning going through photographs from our past. In a box filled with love letters from over the years, I came across my list of dreams for the decade that I wrote on January 1, 2020. Surprisingly, I have made more of a dent in the list than I would have thought. Sometimes when we’re stuck in the present it’s hard to picture life in the future. The present rarely feels acceptable. It’s hard. But reflecting on time and looking back to see how much we have grown and changed can be a beautiful reminder to help guide us forward. Because if we keep trying, keep looking up, keep believing - sometimes, we get there.

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A powerful thunderstorm passed through the mountains last week. It was the first of the year. Usually by August I’m used to their strength - the storms are different in Vermont from the ones I grew up with in the suburbs. When the clouds rush from the mountains and into the valley, there’s a fury to these storms that often catch me off guard. The wind whips the trees like approaching monsters and the rain falls sideways into the bedrooms. At 1:45am last Thursday night (or early Friday morning) our bedroom door slammed shut with a loud bang. I grabbed my glasses and raced out of bed in search of Lucy (our golden retriever) who had just begun thunder-barking, trying my best to calm her before she woke up the entire house.

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I began shutting the windows and grabbed one of my sweaters from the laundry pile to wipe down the windowsills. On my way upstairs, I heard Charlie whimper as another thunder boomed so loudly it shook the house. I went to him, and pulled his skinny little body close to mine. He wrapped his arms around my neck, and I carried him down to the safety of our bed. John held him close, and I went back to windows and dog, turning on the AC for the first time ever in our house, and doing my best to calm Lucy who growled and barked from beneath the dining table. Despite my best efforts to coax her out of her anxiety meltdown, I knew the only thing we could do was wait for the storm to pass. Eventually, her breathing steadied and she fell back to sleep at the end of our bed.

May, too, was like a rumbling storm. The best kind, like last weeks. With beauty and fear, excitement and uncertainty. And the exhaustion that comes after a wild night listening to the booming sounds of the clouds. I went into the month of May with the tentative plan that I would finish the first draft of a new book that I had started working on in early March. I cancelled my publisher’s marketplace subscription, knowing I would most likely spend the summer editing before I would begin querying agents again. And after six years of writing and editing my debut novel, I put it to the back of my mind for a short while, unsure what I was going to do with the book that soothed me to write during the early days of motherhood.

May was filled with a downpour of events - ballet recitals, lacrosse practice, and end of school year concerts. Mother’s Day flashed by into the next big bang of Memorial Day which was a roaring weekend that took me too long to recover from. I started helping one of my closest friends with our town’s social media, which is a fun flurry of learning and failing, and trying again. And lastly, but definitely not least, something truly amazing happened – I got an email one afternoon while sitting on the couch with Charlie - it was from a literary agent. My first book is back in my life again and I’m so thrilled and grateful to be learning and growing and trying alongside it.

I can feel change in the air. It’s happening all around me. In every aspect of life. This week marks the last week of kindergarten for my daughter, Lily. Next week, she’ll be a rising 1st grader. Over the weekend, I watched my three children run through the trails on our street and realized how much they’ve grown. Lily and Charlie are like the children I read about on summer reading lists growing up - wandering through the woods with bare feet and using their imaginations to create forts and adventures. They picked up bugs I would never dare touch and I watched as they climbed to places I didn’t think they could reach on their own. Wells will be two in September and he’s like a wild forest creature, making me laugh daily. He fits into the clothes Charlie wore when we first moved here and it’s the first summer in seven years that I’m not pregnant or caring for a baby under or just over the age of one.

Everything’s changing, but I’m ready for it. I want a summer filled with fishing poles and watermelon. I want to be present and slow. To reach into my children’s souls and find a connection that sometimes goes astray during the school year. I can already see it happening with Lily, in the best way. The frequent attitude I get some mornings when I wake her - when she growls at me for answering a simple question like, ‘what’s the weather going to be like today?’, is starting to melt away.

And I know things can never be perfect and I don’t want them to be. I love that my kids growl and stomp and cry – because they see me do the same. The boys will still have meltdowns every day, and that’s okay. It doesn’t mean it’s easy - it’s hard being the emotional punching bag in the family. I think it’s the hardest part about being a mom. But none of the mental strain matters when I take a step back and remember that this is exactly where I want to be right now. And tell myself that for my thirty-fifth summer, I get to spend it here. With them. Making berry pies. Swimming in the river. Editing a book. And going to bed beside the guy I love with the strength of last week’s wind – despite the hurricanes we build together. The storms brew because the love is real and raw and matters.

This morning there’s a sleeping dog beside me and I take another sip of coffee in a quiet house. The horses across the street are still resting in the grass. And it’s a cloudy June day. One that reminds me of my own summer’s growing up - with Coldplay songs and Harry Potter books. We’re always chasing the next thing and looking to the future. But today is June 9th. I wait all year for June. And I must remind myself this summer to stop and take in the calm that comes after a big storm. I’m not sure what the future holds. Change is exciting and scary. So for now, I will pour myself another cup of coffee and wake my daughter, because she’s going to be late for the bus.

Thanks for reading Les Monts Vert.

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With love,

Bri

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April has been such a topsy turvy month here in Vermont. Between drastic changes to our weekly schedule to even wackier weather patterns, I’ve spent much of the past few weeks reflecting on time and how so much of it is a feeling rather than the actual date on the calendar or the ticking of the second hand around the clock. For most of the month I woke in the darkness and spent the minutes before the kid’s woke up in heavy socks and a fleece. Many mornings I’d find myself grabbing hats and mittens from the ceramic cachepot in the mud room and would watch as flurries scattered through the sky. March had felt like spring - with walks in lighter jackets and daylight savings. And then April arrived. And she’s been playing tricks with me all month - teaching me what it means to be patient.

The first Sunday in April I received an email from my three-year old’s school with the news that they were immediately and permanently shutting down. There had been a lot of cancelled days in March, but no little red school meant that Charlie would be home with me for the remainder of the year until pre-k starts in the fall and that my plan to send Wells to school a few mornings next year just rolled off down a steep hill. It’s funny how timing works - I had just been thinking about how I wanted to spend those few mornings to myself next year (the first free hours in six years). There would always be the dream of spending that time writing in a professional sense, filling the hours with words and creativity. I also started thinking about getting involved in some local part-time work. Even the image of going into the grocery store without someone whining in every aisle sent a spark of electricity through my bones - especially after yesterday morning when someone yelled at me because my cart was facing the wrong direction in the self-checkout line. I had all three with me - a cart full of food after being away for a week - and was at the end of my rope when the guy pointed to me with a hitchhiker’s thumb out and said to the guy next to him, “out-of-towner” (I waited until I got to the car to cry).

Charlie is like me in a lot of ways - just like my grocery store tears, he’s super sensitive and thrives on a schedule. I feared this new change in routine would cause tension to his already fragile state. So I decided to act early and set a plan to help keep both of our emotions in check. I spent most of the month setting an early alarm so that I could get a few minutes of alone time to write before the kids woke up. Even a half hour is enough to keep me feeling grounded before I hear the first cry or the noisy shuffle of our dog tumbling down the stairs begging for breakfast. And it keeps my mind buzzing all day - reliving the moments I spent traveling through years and places in a character’s life. It gives me the strength to stay energetic - signing up for activities like story time at the library or the little forest school that takes place once a week. And it’s been such a gift, these past few weeks. Having the extra time in the day with Char has benefited everyone - especially me. The angry little toddler I dropped off at school a month ago has transformed into a calm little boy who loves playing with his little brother. And the anxious mother who feared not having enough time to herself has found more time to be present.

We spent the past week in New Jersey for spring break visiting friends and family who we don’t get to see enough now that we live a few hours away. April’s fools continued and a lot of the plans I had made weeks in advance were cancelled and shifted because Wells had a fever and bad cough. But we persevered and kept at our goal for a fun week in warmer temperatures and accomplished exactly that. Spending our days in summer clothes and spending a full week with both siblings was exactly what we needed after a long winter. And as we drove home through the soggy rain on Saturday afternoon, I noticed that April had one final trick up her sleeve that she must have been saving for us - the leaves on the trees had returned, casting the mountains and land around us in a shade of light green. We returned to colors again. We returned to spring.

This week, Charlie turns four. And, so, as we say goodbye to April and head into his birthday week, I’ve realized that the challenges we’re constantly faced with and the seasons changing are gentle reminders to keep working on the little things - because they make us who we are. And who we may one day become. I’m not sure what September will look like for us next year. It’s hard being in the middle of something - unsure what the outcome will be. I have this idea of what John and I will be doing ten years from now but the picture is blurry, as though I’m looking at it without my contacts in. But the vision has been there for years and I know one day the image will become crisper and the hopes and dreams we discuss when we’re in far away lands will one day come true. But in the meantime, we’ll keep the small intentions that ground us in the present. And keep trying new things, because as Chris Martin puts it, if you never try, you’ll never know.

If we stayed inside and didn’t go on the walk, I’d spend the morning listening to Wells sobbing at my feet and pulling at my pants. If we didn’t take the road trip down to the beach last week, we’d never have found the shells that have become prized possessions and gifts for friends. And if Charlie’s school never shut down, I would have never watched him pick the daffodil from Merck Forest in his snow boots one Friday morning. And watched how he carefully filled a glass jar with water and placed it on his bedside table. So many moments in our life slip away from us. But I hope this one doesn’t. I hope I always remember the way he looked at me as we admired the way the yellow flower brightened the space in his little green room.

So this week we’ll mix the butter and sugar and make the shark cake. We’ll wrap the presents and celebrate another year of our little boy. And I’ll think to myself as I watch him blow out the candles that I’m so grateful to spend this extra time with him right now. Time is everything. It keeps moving. The clock is always ticking. But instead of fearing it, we’ll savor it. And we’ll welcome May and the return of the green mountains with warming hearts.

XO

Bri

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Sunday morning my husband left at 2:30 am for the Albany airport and headed west for a work conference in California for the week. All three kids have been sick. One has strep, the other looks like he has pink eye, and the youngest has a double-ear infection with green snot coming out from every possible place imaginable. We’ve had meltdowns at the pharmacy, I had to do the weekly grocery run with all three in the cart, and the dog has been whining to go for a walk for two days now and I’ve simply told her to go lie down. Yet despite the chaos, I’ve actually been strangely calm.

I was thinking about it this afternoon while making a batch of chicken noodle soup. I’ve mentioned it before, but I’ll say it again - I’m someone who gets very anxious and extremely overwhelmed when the anxiety spikes. I’ve worked through the whys with life coaches and therapists over the years - but it takes A LOT of work to stay on top of it. It comes in many different forms but all with the same tendencies. In my twenties, it was always social anxiety. Wanting to stay in on a Saturday night but feeling pressured to go out instead. I thought if I missed that one particular night, everyone would come together and decide collectively that they didn’t want to be my friend anymore. So I would go and stay out until two in the morning and then wallow in self-pity the next day on the couch, ruining a beautiful Sunday with a hangover. Gosh, I am so happy to be out of my twenties.

Then there was the postpartum anxiety during early motherhood that felt all-consuming. It started right after Lily’s rushed emergency c-section. I found myself overwhelmed and fearing everything. When I would close my eyes at night I would be back under the OR lights, listening to the words scalpel, remembering that I wanted to yell out - “stop! I’m still awake!” The nights with a newborn consumed me - my mind was my worst enemy. Were the windows locked in the nursery? What if someone scaled the house, climbed through the window, and kidnapped her? When I’d be rocking her back to sleep at night I’d be convinced that a shadow in the room was moving. Was someone there? I’d turn on all of the lights and run down the stairs as fast as I could - afraid that I was being followed.

When I write it all down, it all sounds totally crazy. I know that. But the truth is the truth. And it’s the thing I have worked hardest to keep in-check because it stops me from being my true authentic self.

Nowadays, my anxiety isn’t as strong but it still appears in the form of social pressures. I still overthink texts that go unanswered or will say something to a friend that I wish I could take back, dwelling about it for hours. And the worst part is that when this happens, I tend to snap at the one’s I love most - usually, John.

Last week was one that normally would have left me feeling really anxious and burnt out. I committed to a lot of plans and even went on a job interview (!) for the first time in years. But this afternoon, while making homemade noodles and stock, I realized that the reason I wasn’t tweaking at every loud noise or tantrum was because everything I did last week, and everything I was working on this week, completely aligned with my personal core values.

I learned it all from an amazing life coach who I worked closely with when I wasn’t sure what to do next after having two kids.

We started working together in the Fall of 2021 when Char was about six months old. I would spend all day, everyday, consumed by the question of whether I should return to work or not. It didn’t feel right to go back full-time. But I felt so judged choosing to stay home. I told my coach this crazy idea John and I had: we were thinking about moving to Vermont. It felt outrageous to even say it out loud.

“Why would that be crazy?” She asked me during that first phone call. “Would it align with your values?”

Values? I didn’t even know what values were.

We did an exercise together and the following week I came to her with what I felt aligned most with me at the time. I tend to check-in with these once a year to see if they’re still the case. And, three-and-a-half years later, they still ring true. They’re very personal, yet quite simple. And they’re my compass that guides me through every decision - the big and the small:

My Values:

• Try not to seek perfection in the eyes of others.

• Live life for family first - putting myself, my husband, and three children before anyone else.

• Promote creativity in order to gain a sense of balance and inner peace - write!

• Be caring/grateful/kind to the one’s you love most. Life is a gift and nothing is guaranteed.

• Seek simplicity by stripping away excess noise.

I keep a copy in my purse and in my closet at all times. Sometimes it’s taped to the mirror in my bathroom. It’s a daily reminder. One that guides me so whole-heartedly in the right direction.

This past week I was faced with many decisions. Some that, in the past, would have sent me spiraling. Should I go to the kindergarten birthday party by myself with all three kids during nap time? Should I go on the job interview? Do we want to try that restaurant that’s thirty-three minutes away on Friday night? Should I put Wells in school next year, or keep him home with me again? What should we do about Easter? Should I attend the school board meeting on Monday? Should I take the walk with the friend? These are just a few of the questions I was faced with last week.

I use the same exercise I did with my life coach when faced with these simple, yet sometimes, difficult questions.

Does it align with my values?

If it does, then do it. If it doesn’t, then don’t. It’s as simple as that. But - the catch - if I’ve never tried it before - it’s worth doing once and then deciding if I want to do it again. And honestly, most of the time I don’t even have to check the list. I can simply see if my chest feels light or heavy over the idea - and then I know my answer.

I ended the week feeling the best I have in awhile. John and I did go on the date night thirty-three minutes away, and it was exactly what we needed after a long winter of staying in. We couldn’t remember the last time we went out, just him and I. And the restaurant reminded us of one we had dined at in South Africa, sweeping us up in memories of those simple days filled with plunge pools and long meals together on our honeymoon.

“Do you think we’ll ever be able to return to that feeling of freedom again?” I asked him as we drove home (I was of course worried we were getting back too late for the babysitter). We both agreed that it would probably be awhile before we felt that free from responsibility. But it was a precious reminder that the phase we’re in right now, with three kids five and under is temporarily, and oh-so-sweet. I already miss them all as they are right now. Because tomorrow, they’ll be older than they were today.

So I’ve soaked in these slow days with the kids resting on the couch and hugged them a little bit longer when they’re being cute and want nothing else but me. Because, of course, they are my values. And as we walked through a few flurries this morning (Lucy finally got her walk in), we spotted the beginning signs of flowers popping up from beneath the dirt’s surface. And I thought to myself. Yes, we’re all very much fine. And so grateful for it.

Have a great week!

XO

Bri

There’s a reason it’s been a while since my last post. It’s a metaphor in a way, thinking back to my first three pieces on here. I’d be walking on a warm Fall day, t-shirt or light jacket on, and thinking about something inspiring as the fresh air filled my lungs in a way that only led me to smile through each exhale. I’d come back from a long walk, and for the next hour or so before I’d have to pick-up the preschooler - with the one-year-old rummaging around the house keeping busy - I’d write it all down and, poof - send it out into the Substack world! Yay!

But since those warm, beautiful, colorful days I’ve still been here writing, but working on something else entirely. The frigidness of winter has had me so focused indoors that I’ve been working on nothing but my manuscript in my free time. There have been wonderful and terrible moments these long winter days. Winter always seems to grab hold of me by the collar, holding on with a tight grip for months before it finally decides to let go. I always tell myself I’m fine, I’m fine until the snow starts to melt, and the sun comes out and I think: Oh, yes - I see it so clearly now - I’ve been living in a melancholy wintery fog (also known as seasonal depression).

Since November, there have been many ups and many downs. There came and went all of the good and bad that comes with the holiday season. A failed girl’s trip to the Bahamas that ended with cancelled flights, a trip to the ER, and a long drive back home in a rental car. Themed dinner parties, lovely walks in the woods with friends, Norovirus (and several other bad colds mixed in along the way). A horrible outbreak of eczema all over my face that lasted about six weeks. Toddler tantrums. A broken hand (my husband’s in a hockey game). Snowstorms, snow days, frigid days. Movies by the fire. Warm sourdough bread. And very thick socks.

I always wonder on the first day of each new year what will happen in the year ahead. It’s a fearful yet exciting feeling. For the past ten years or so, it seems that every year is relatively eventful. Pregnancies, births, moves. It’s been a whirlwind. And when something really good or really bad happens, I think back to that innocent girl on January 1st and say - oh, she had no idea this was coming, did she? There have already been a few of those unfortunate moments this year. The kind that forces you to look in the mirror and in an instant, you realize what matters - and how simply everything else is insignificant. But throughout all of those joyful and sorrowful moments, there has been one central rhythm that I make sure to incorporate in my routing every day…writing.

So this winter, I’ve been completely overhauling my novel. It may have been the same day that I sent out my last post that my husband called me into his office and told me he had an early birthday present to give to me. Okay…I said (he likes to give gifts early because he gets so excited, and I like to wait until the actual day). But in this case, he needed to tell me - he was sending me to a writer’s conference the first week of December for four days. It was the New York Write to Pitch Conference, where you pitch your novel to real agents and editors and get honest feedback on how to make it as marketable as possible (along with major tips on novel writing). I cried such happy tears when he told me.

It’s such a personal, strange experience to work on a book. You don’t know if it will ever get published, so it’s very scary to actually admit out loud that this huge part of your daily life even exists. I’ve been working on my first novel for over five years. It’s been the most cathartic experience of my life, writing it. I’ve always loved writing; I kept a journal every summer growing up and a diary in college documenting all of my adventures. But back in college I always thought, even though writing is what I love to do, I’d never be good enough to actually write a book. It seemed like something that was on par with going to the Olympics. So instead, I majored in Art History (which I loved) and minored in English and Studio Art and embraced those magical four years of learning and creating things. They were my most authentic, carefree years.

I stopped writing for a while in my early twenties. This is the period I always associate with feeling the most disconnected with myself. But soon after getting married, I found a way back to it. On my day off from work, I suddenly found myself typing out scenes to a story on my laptop. John would be working (I worked Saturdays so my day off was always a random day during the week), and I’d have the whole day ahead of me before he’d get home for dinner. I’d go for a long run, plan out a nice meal, and then spend my afternoons sitting at my desk. That’s when this book started. It was a love story, inspired by my own. And later, a tribute to everything that motherhood has taught me. It’s called, The Summer Stone.

These past five and a half-year since having three babies - and amidst a wild identity crisis - I’ve been working on this book. During nap time, I sneak away to the computer. After the kids are asleep at night, I relish in the hour to myself when I edit or read in bed. And, recently, since my youngest is eighteen-months old and sleeping (mostly) through the night, I’ve been waking up at 5 a.m. every morning to soak in an hour of writing before the kids wake up.

The conference was the best thing I could have ever done. I gained invaluable advice about my novel and on how to pitch it to agents. I made amazing contacts in the industry and met a wonderful group of writers who also have the same secret identity. They all came from different corners of the country, varying from 25-75 with different careers and backgrounds. But we all shared something so similar: the same passion and goal. It was incredibly inspiring. Not to mention, I figured out that I can totally leave my kids for a few days, and they’ll be fine.

Since the conference, I’ve been hyper-focused on my story. I finished my latest edit and sent my manuscript out to a few agents. I’ve gotten some feedback and have also started working on book two. I’ve found that the best way to get through a dark winter is to create goals with myself because it makes me feel accomplished and calm at the end of the day. I’m someone who can so easily spiral into an anxiety tornado - so here’s what helps: keeping the house clean. Drastically limiting drinking (like one glass a week is my max these days). Waking up at 5 am. Reading at night instead of scrolling - and, quite frankly, being off social media as much as possible. Planning my day so that nap-time actually happens in a crib. And doing the mundane tasks when the baby is awake, because he genuinely enjoys helping me empty the dishwasher anyway so might as well do it when’s he’s up.

It’s so easy to get distracted and put something off until the next day. I’m the queen of doing it. But I’ve set a goal for myself: to have my book two rough draft completed by Memorial Day. And I’m going to really try to make it happen!

So here’s to a great week and hoping the lion of March begins to tame itself into that sweet little lamb. Winter is ready to say goodbye, and I’m waving as it walks out the door - happy it came, but glad it’s leaving.

XO

Bri

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It’s suddenly stick season in Vermont which means that the bright colors of the foliage have passed and the bare mountains shout down below to all of us in the village what is about to happen next - winter is coming.

We’ve been very spoiled the last two months. It’s been a mild Fall with barely any rain. Most days have been sunny and warm since the start of school. Waiting for the bus is a pleasantry. And walking out of the house hasn’t required additional jackets or mittens. My three-year-old can still get away with wearing shorts most days. We’ve been lucky. And I haven’t taken any of it for granted.

But now it’s November, and the leaves have left the skies and fallen to the Earth. The mountains are now that burgundy, blue shade that will remain until April. I know that winter is approaching, and I’ve had mixed feelings about it.

Last week, my daughter was home sick from kindergarten for three days in a row. She had a fever and I knew she didn’t have the energy to walk with me but it was a beautifully warm day so I put her and the baby in the double stroller and off we went. It was a nice change to the usual silence or fussiness when it’s just Wells and I. On this day, I decided to go further than usual. Wells had fallen asleep and Lily and I talked quietly together, spelling out words from around us. It’s amazing when I step away from the distractions of my phone or the tasks of the day to actually take the time to listen, with undivided attention, to my daughter. I found myself amazed, noticing how much she has learned since the start of the school year. And seeing how much she is changing, just as the seasons.

“How do you spell pink, mama?” she asked from ahead. I looked around, trying to find the source of what she had seen. And that’s when I noticed it: amongst the naked branches and coiled, licorice-smelling leaves on the ground, there was a tree with magenta-shaded leaves on it.

“Wow,” I said, noticing it’s beauty. I took a picture of it, loving the color. I’ve been so used to seeing the blazing colors of oranges and red turn to brown around me these past few weeks. But pink, is the one color I don’t expect to see in the Fall. And as soon as I noticed, I couldn’t stop finding it everywhere.

Suddenly, pink was all around.

It seems fitting, that nature would give us such a meaningful color to admire these last few weeks before winter. Pink is often associated with feelings of love and compassion. It brings us feelings of comfort and warmth. I think there’s a reason we celebrate Valentine’s Day in the middle of the winter. And I found myself thankful for this reminder that winter is not just barren trees and a whipping wind chilling my bones each day. Winter, is something so much more. It is a gift.

Last year, a new friend recommended I read ’s book, Wintering, before my first winter in Vermont. I listened to it on audio one weekend when I had to drive back to New Jersey for my sister’s baby shower. In her kind, British accent, Katherine May explained the beauty of the darkness that comes each year. And the ways in which to embrace the time that can be filled with focusing on things from within. For me, winter represents going to sleep early and spending my evenings during the school week reading and writing. It is a time filled with crunchy bread and warm soups. It’s when the hours with my children are focused more indoors - with toy sets, coloring, and chapter books getting more attention. It reminds me of velvet and candles. And dinner parties with homemade pasta sauce.

One of the best surprises I’ve grown to love about living in Vermont is being able to walk the same path each day and watch, quite literally, how everything changes week over week. There are such vibrant seasons in Vermont - each season a cliche, and visible. And it has given me a strong appreciation for every season. For the tulips in the Spring would not bring as much joy if we had not all endured a cold winter. And so I thank the pink trees around us today. Because I look forward to focusing on my novel, skiing in the mountains, and making lots of warm sugar cookies in the weeks ahead with my children. For focusing on what’s really important and blocking what isn’t. And I thank my daughter, Lily, for seeing the pinks in the dying Fall.

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On Mother’s Day 2023 my husband landed on a plane coming from Charleston into Newark airport and drove straight to Dorset, Vermont to look at a house that had just come up on the market. Showings were only for three days with the last time-slot for the weekend being Sunday at noon. We had been away for my little brother’s college graduation and, living three hours from Vermont, would only have about fifteen minutes to see the house before the agents left for the day if he timed everything right.

“Good luck,” I told him, as he ran from one car to the next, pulling out of the driveway, and headed North.

The real-estate market was still crazy post-covid. When houses went live on a Thursday, offers were accepted on Monday, and usually the sellers would have their decisions made within 24-hours - always going with the highest cash offer. We were cutting it close. But it felt worth it to look.

After all, we had set a goal - a goal that everyone we knew thought was crazy - a goal that most people didn’t think we were actually serious about - we were going to sell our house in New Jersey and move to Vermont before the start of the school year. We would move during my third trimester - with an already three and two year old keeping us busy at home. I would change OB’s at twenty-eight weeks. Have a baby in a new state. And we weren’t moving for the obvious reasons like a new job. In fact, we were moving away from the jobs. It was just…because.

Later that night, after driving there and back, my husband and I sat together at the kitchen table after the kids were down and weighed our options. The houses needed a ton of work (I don’t think we realized how much at the time or we probably wouldn’t have bought it). But it was on the right street with a cold-plunging river and hiking trails down the road. Most of our neighbors would be horses and cows. It was close to the historic village green. And my morning walks with our high-maintenance golden retriever would provide views of open meadows and green mountains (something I knew I needed). I was drowning back at home. I needed fresh air. I needed the mountains. And that’s why we were moving to Vermont - to live. To feel alive everyday. To make this life worthwhile.

So we put in an offer.

And we got it.

A few months later we closed on a day that was disastrous for the state of Vermont - a day where almost the entire state flooded. Bridges fell into rivers. Towns were destroyed. Was it an omen? Probably. The romantic element of a fixer upper quickly deflated as soon as we understood how much time and money it would cost to turn the house into something that would feel like a home. Suddenly, reality kicked in when I realized I’d be bringing our third baby home from the hospital to my parents house, not ours. That we’d spend a year living out of boxes and stacks of clothes on the floor. I still shiver when I think back to last winter - my husband and I walking into a gutted house wrapped in our heaviest jackets staring at collapsing structural beams that would need to be replaced. Our money was quickly being ripped away from us with little progress being made. And our first winter in Vermont was a cold one.

Fast-forward to yesterday. I pulled on a heavy cable-knit sweater for the first time this year and went out with my baby, who is not so much of a baby now, and strolled down the road. We officially moved into the house last Tuesday, a day that I honestly wasn’t sure would ever come. I’ve spent the last few weeks unpacking and packing our life up again. My husband started a new job in August and has been busy in his new office. My weeks have been spent dusting off memories in storage. Cleaning windows. Becoming reacquainted with plates and bowls that were once wedding gifts. Saying hello to my paintings from my college days. Memories that make me smile. Moments that make up John and I’s life together. Turning this new space into one that feels warm and filled with light. One that gives my children peace when they shut their eyes at night, their heads resting on new, soft pillows.

As I walked down the road I stopped at the little bridge and watched the last remaining leaves from the trees float down in the water below. Our neighbor invited me inside his barn and we chatted about cows. I stepped into the share-shed - a community farm share that has been around since the 1800’s - for a gallon of fresh, raw milk. I thought back to the year we have had. When I reflect on it, because of course it’s the time of year when I always reflect on my life (it’s my birthday in a few weeks), I think how there were so many things that went wrong this past year. Many lost funds. No travel. I edited my book yet again without any more bites from agents. Questioning if I will ever become a writer. Wondering, yet again, if I’m happy being a stay-at-home mom. Wondering what I will do with my extra time next year when all three children have some sort of school to go to, even if only for a few hours. Thinking that I’m not doing enough. That I’m just not good enough. Embarrassed with my passion project. That I’ll never find my what’s next after leaving my family’s business.

But as I turned back towards our house and saw the white clapboard siding from down the road, something happened. I found myself smiling into the sun. So happy to be exactly where I am today. I realized, even as I yearn and search for a creative career that I hope will come one day, that I already have everything I’ve ever wanted. If someone whispered into my ear back when I was in college that right before my thirty-fifth birthday I’d be married to the boy I have loved since the day I met him when I was eighteen, living in Vermont (my favorite place on Earth), taking care of three young children, happy, healthy. Full with friendships. Warm with food. I wouldn’t believe it. My son pointed at the water with an excited grunting sound. We named him Wells, meaning “spring stream".” He brought us to the fresh water. I leaned down next to him and kissed his chubby cheek.

I’m am the luckiest.

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In July 2022, my husband and I decided to bring our children to our favorite place for the summer - Vermont. We had had a hard year. I was almost two years into motherhood with two babies (born twenty months apart) and in the darkest slums of an identity crisis. Looking back, it all seems so clear - I was quite simply losing my mind.

I had experienced two traumatic birth and pregnancies, lived through covid with a newborn, felt completely lost about whether I should return to work or not (a fifth generation family business in New Jersey), and then my son had an accident right before his first birthday in April of 2022 and I completely blamed myself for it. It had been my fault. He could have died under my watch, and I didn’t know how to move on. I was broken. Paralyzed. And needed a change. I needed a sign. I couldn’t wake up thirty years from now and realize that I had missed it. I had missed my life. And I knew exactly what that life would look like if we decided to stay.

My parents have always had a second-home in Vermont. It’s where I learned to breathe in fresh air and fall in love with meadows filled with wildflowers. It’s where I brought my husband when we first started dating in college. And where we chose to get married in 2017. During covid, my husband and I kept returning to the idea of moving to Vermont as a test of sorts. But I was afraid, I wasn’t sure if or when I was returning to work, and I didn’t want to let my family down. I wasn’t that kind of person. I was the one everyone always counted on. I was the perfectionist. The people-pleaser. I didn’t have it in me to destroy plans. To disappoint. But the day after my son’s accident I remember sitting in his nursery with the lights off, rocking him in the glider, and thinking that maybe this was the sign that I needed to do something drastically different.

As soon as we arrived in the green mountains, something shifted in me. I found myself walking past horse pastures each morning and feeling something that I had lost years before - myself. I had no idea how much motherhood would change me. The day before my daughter’s birth I was one person, and the day after - I was somebody entirely different. I had romanticized motherhood through the image of walking around the neighborhood with the bassinet stroller. When in reality, I found myself up at night panicking that something horrible would happen to her and unsure how to connect with anyone in my life outside of my husband. I had no idea how fundamentally I would be transformed. I was planning on running my family’s business one day. I loved the sales. I loved knowing that I was doing a good job. But once my daughter arrived I simply couldn’t leave her and I didn’t understand why. Nobody did.

I googled, I searched, I tried to find the answers. I wrote pros and cons lists. I worked with a life coach. I read books and listened to podcasts. I tried to research everything I could about how to make the right decision. But I kept finding myself trapped on the carousel - and I didn’t know how to get off of it. It has taken me years, but I finally did. I realized I did change. I’m not the girl I was in my twenties. But the biggest surprise that motherhood has given me has been realizing that I hadn’t become a new person after children - instead, I found the girl I have always been. I had simply pushed her away in order to conform to somebody that I thought everybody wanted me to be.

I found myself connecting with the girl from my teens. The one who loved reading books and listening to sad songs. I remembered why I had studied Art and English in college - and wasn’t sure why I had abandoned those creative dreams for ten years. I missed writing. I missed painting. I missed listening to the Garden State soundtrack on rainy mornings. I realized that I hadn’t connected with myself in years - I had been too busy trying to make everyone else around me happy, while avoiding my own for fear of letting other people down.

We spent six weeks in Vermont that summer, but by the end of the second week my husband and I knew. I remember walking with him one evening during sunset after the kids were down and telling him that this was the secret to our happiness. We knew this was what a fulfilling life would look like. We knew that if we never tried we would always wonder. We drove back down south at the end of August with a goal - we would sell our house and buy a new one by the end of the school year. And we did.

We’ve been living in the green mountains, les monts vert, for fifteen months now and are days away from moving in the old historic home we’ve been renovating for a year. We had a third baby last September who has brought us all so much joy. I didn’t experience any postpartum depression this time around. My anxiety still comes and goes, but that’s for another post. I wrote a novel and am currently trying to get it published while writing a second book after the kids go to bed at night. I walk our dog everyday. I volunteer at my daughter’s school. I make four loaves of sourdough bread each week. We have friends - real, true, authentic wonderful friends. And we’ve still experienced hardships - no one can avoid them, not even in the valley of the green mountains. But despite those challenges, we get through them - my family and I -together.

____

If you are someone like me who feels seen by vulnerability, who is in search for a meaningful, authentic life - who knows that taking a risk is so much better than not taking one at all - than I’d love for you to join me in this new creative space. It will be a happy place filled with the secrets of love, fears, and dreams. Of motherhood, warm food, beautiful mountain scenery, and honesty.

Thank you and welcome,

Bri

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