150 Days until your Trip

63 Days until your trip

1 day until your trip

I watch the widget on the home screen of my phone ticking down day by day. A trip to Mallorca for my husband and his friends’ 50^th birthdays. As with any trip I can’t wait. Travel is part of me. I am most myself when traveling. Exploring and experiencing new things. Different cultures. Taking in my new surroundings and observing the way my fellow humans in a different place live their everyday lives. Traveling fills my cup in a way that nothing else can, and I am constantly yearning for new experiences.

But underneath the anticipation, there is something else. A feeling of confliction. Dread. Because while I can’t wait to be in Mallorca, this is an adult-only trip, and it means I will be leaving my children at home.

This is nothing new to us. We leave the kids at least once a year for adult-only trips. Every time they stay home with my mom, their Yaya, who they are completely obsessed with. We have tried to avoid it (bringing our 3-month-old on a president’s club trip that was not appreciated) but it’s routine, and it still kills me each and every time.

As I pack for the trip, I put together outfits that I would never wear around my children. A white silk dress, that if worn around my babies would be stained before we left the house. A skirt that would most definitely expose far too much to anyone in the vicinity should I need to wrangle a screaming 2.5-year-old throwing himself on the ground. A bathing suit that was clearly not created by a mother and made for nothing more than lounging on a beach chair, drink in hand. But for the next 10 days the only stains will come from me splashing wine out of my glass as we cheers to the birthdays. There is something freeing about that. For 10 days I am me. I am Timmarie the woman. The wife. The fun one who can stay up past 9pm. Who doesn’t mind indulging in one extra glass because I won’t be woken up at 6am the next morning. The Timmarie who has thoughts and ideas and can conversate about things other than sleep schedules and the latest episode of Spidey I was watching.

But more importantly than becoming a me that doesn’t revolve around children, my husband and I become us again. The couple that lived in Manhattan and went out to dinner at 9pm. The couple that sat on the couch binging shows during covid. The us that laughs, and jokes, and drinks wine together enjoying the sunset. For 10 days we get back to the us that our entire family is built upon. The foundation that the house stands on. And there is something beautiful about that.

I don’t remember a time where my parents did anything for themselves. Sure, they went on the occasional date night, but it seemed more like an obligation, not a choice to put each other first. Their lives revolved solely around us. Especially for my mother who spent every second trying to provide the best childhood she could for us. Of course, I am so grateful for all the sacrifices she made, I see what it cost her. I see the toll it took on her, on their marriage. My parents divorced in 2019, long after our childhood was over, but it opened my eyes to what I saw as an example of a marriage growing up. I would never blame my parents or fault them for the choices they made, but part of being the next generation means getting to do things differently.

So I am choosing a different path. Part of loving my children also means modeling what a healthy relationship looks like. It is so easy for me to put my kids before anything else. Before myself, before my marriage, before my faith. But I know how important it is that my marriage is a priority, and more importantly for my children to see that.

Yet the fact remains, that no matter how hard I try to set a good example, or know that I am doing this for a reason, we are not that Manhattan couple anymore. I am a mother. And no matter where I am in the world, no matter how far, my kids are with me 24/7. They are in every thought and every breath. I walk past a mom holding her child’s hand and I suddenly sense the emptiness in mine. Because motherhood isn’t a switch that can be flipped. It doesn’t turn off when you are away. The light stays on when no one is home.

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Everyone has something to say when they hear I leave my kids to go on vacation.

“Oh wow, good for you, I could never do what you do.”

“So far? Aren’t you afraid something will happen when you are gone?”

“I just couldn’t imagine leaving my children that long. I would miss them too much.”

But what they don’t consider is that every comment they make, well intentioned, passive, or outright judgmental, I have made to myself. As if I haven’t considered every possible shame before. As if I haven’t run through a list of every single little thing that could go wrong. Imagined the nights where they ask, “Where mama go?” while being comforted by Yaya. Because trust me, anything you say to me, I have said a million times to myself.

This particular trip my 5-year-old was taking it very hard. We left on my birthday which made it that much worse, and she sobbed for hours before us leaving. At one point she sputtered out between sobs

“When I am a mama, I am NEVER going to leave my babies. I will only go on trips if I take them with me. Why would you want to leave me here?”

If you want to talk about mom guilt…I had enough to last a lifetime in that moment. I hug her and comfort her the best I can. Not trying to defend my choice or explain it, it doesn’t matter to her anyways. She is 5 and her mom and dad are leaving her at home for 10 days. That’s all she sees for now. We say goodbye a million times, none of them feeling good enough until eventually my mom gently reminds me that I am making it worse and I just need to go.

Each time we leave I cry in the car. Our uber drivers must think I’m insane because I spend the whole time crying and telling Amit we shouldn’t be doing this. Then we get to the airport, and I try to push it out of my mind. Focus on how much easier it is to travel without a energetic 2.5 year old that I am constantly trying to remind to use an inside voice. As we settle into our seats I read a book, something that’s impossible with them. But in some twisted way I miss the interruptions, I miss the hard flight, because it means I’m not alone. Yet another thing to add to the list that my husband has literally no understanding of, and thinks I should get help for. He just doesn’t get it. He is not a mother.

I truly believe that it is hard wired inside of us. To want to be near to our children 24/7, even when we don’t want to be near them. It’s the same phenomenon as the mother who can’t wait for the arrival of bedtime, only to spend an hour scrolling through pictures of the children she couldn’t wait to get down. We have all been there. It doesn’t make sense, it goes against all logic.

I will also treasure this time with my husband. The time with our friends. The memories made, and the places explored. They all hold a place in my heart right alongside my children.

This isn’t a “you deserve the trip, take it” essay. Or a listicle on how to make leaving your children easier. For some a trip away could be exactly what they need. For others it would be disastrous. I’m not here to tell you which, or to judge what you chose for that matter.

In the end we left for the trip as we have done the times in the past. I regretted it, hated myself for it, even blamed my husband a bit. Then we arrived in Mallorca and I knew I had to make the most of it or leaving wasn’t worth it anyways. As time went on, I had the time of my life. Explored, stayed up late laughing, I even indulged in some gluten. Amit and I bonded in the way we always do on trips. Travel has always been a part of our relationship and it’s no different now.

I hold off calling the kids on Facetime unless they are asking to talk. Even though I want to talk to them a million times, I know it will just make it worse. So I wait for Aaliyana’s calls on the iPad I taught her to Facetime me from. Each call she greets me with the biggest smile and tells us all about her days. One of our calls lasts over an hour and I cherish every second of it. My 2.5-year-old makes an occasional appearance poking his head into the screen yelling something then running away. On one particular call he even said “Miss you Mama.” Without any prompting, and I almost lost it. But I held it together, for them, for my husband. As we flew home, I counted down the minutes to hold my children again while a small bubble of regret that our trip was over floated around somewhere deep inside of me. A constant pull of back and forth.

By the time we get home the kids run into our arms jumping and screaming, rummaging through all the little trinkets we have brought back to them. The time away passes slowly, but as soon as I am home it passes quickly again, and the kids forgive me for leaving them. We settle back into our routine like the last 10 days never happened. Except for a few call backs from my far too emotionally intelligent daughter, that go something like “remember when you and daddy left me and I was crying…”

After it’s all said and done, next year we will do it again. I will go through the entire process all over again. The excitement, the dread. There is no resolution. No “it gets easier.” There is just the living through it. The 2 people who I am. The mom who never wants to be away, and the wife that loves the time with her husband.

Always,

Timmarie

It was a perfect day. She had her first performance after attending a theatre class all week. My sisters were both in town with all of her cousins. Her birthday party (a combination of sonic, k-pop demon hunters, and hello kitty per her request) was all planned for the next day.

But then I came home from dropping her off at camp. I walk in the door and my 2.5 year old son runs and jumps into my arms with the sweetest little smile like he is proud but a little embarrassed to show me something.

In that moment the entire day went to sh**.

Because in my arms was not my 2.5 year old with the messy surfer curls that hang down into his eyes. That mat in the exact same place on the back of his head every day. That I could pull into a pony-tail if he would let me even go near it.

Instead, I was looking at a little boy, not a toddler, who had much shorter hair. An awkward length cut right across the middle of his forehead. Shorter and curling up over his ears. Layered and not touching his neck.

I lost it.

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I yelled at my husband for getting it cut. Cried and called my mom. Then cried and called my sister. Then looked at my son walking past and called my sister crying again. You get the picture.

Was it ridiculous to cry over a haircut and refuse to talk to my husband the rest of the day? Maybe so. I’ve never claimed to be perfect…or mature for that matter. But it broke me.

Looking back, I think I can gather why it felt so monumental.

I have always been labeled “emotional” by those around me. Some may refer to it as overly dramatic or too sensitive. I’d like to think of it as being healthily in touch with my emotions. For me it’s just who I have always been.

When I saw the Uber commercial where a mom finally arrived to hug her overwhelmed postpartum daughter, I cried. Even now, typing this out I have goosebumps.

So, when in a single day I had to watch my daughter change from a little one into a kid (why does 5 feel like they are suddenly a child instead of a baby?) and my baby boy suddenly looking older, I had a reaction.

As a mother I live with this constant awareness that these moments are fleeting. Most days I feel as though I am watching time go by. I find myself sitting in a completely ordinary moment when I suddenly become overwhelmed with the knowledge that it won’t last. I look down at their little toes and I want to cry, because I know someday, they will be big kid feet. Their little voices, the way they run, the words they mispronounce. Even the disgusting blankets they both drag around everywhere we go. Everything I find beautiful comes with a quiet, steady ache, because someday it will be gone. And someday I may not remember every little detail. Someday I may even forget what it feels like to have their entire hand wrapped around just one of my fingers.

And I just can’t deal.

How does one manage to live in the moment and soak it all in, while knowing the moment is coming to an end?

My husband thinks I’m clinically insane. He can’t wait for them to grow up. To play sports with him. Watch PG-13 movies together. Have conversations that don’t revolve around kitty’s or whatever my daughter is into at the moment. He looks forward to the days when he can go out for a round of golf with our son. Or sit in the backyard enjoying a dinner together that doesn’t consist of buttered noodles being thrown onto the ground and moving all the glasses away from a certain someone’s reach after some pretty hard learned lessons about spilled wine.

He doesn’t get why I cry when our daughter suddenly grows out of the Buzz Lightyear stage that had her wearing the same Buzz jacket 24/7 for six months straight at age 2.

“But you hated that she wore that every day, you complained the whole time.” he argues.

He’s right of course, but motherhood is nothing if not irrational.

Suddenly I am holding the Buzz jacket wishing she would ask for it just one last time. Grieving as I fold it up, gingerly placing it in a box full of other memories that once were.

What I grieve is saying goodbye to her. To Buzz Lightyear obsessed child. She is gone and all I’m left with is a well-worn jacket.

When my daughter became 5, I said goodbye to the 4-year-old. The little one who talked non-stop and loved Sonic the Hedgehog more than anything. The girl who learned to write her first letters. The one who sings the ABC song completely wrong but is still so proud. That girl is leaving. She is growing and changing and evolving everyday. But what makes these milestones so heavy is the realization of it all.

I see her change. I see the subtle evolution that happens gradually. But it is exactly that. Gradual. So, it’s easy to ignore. To look past. To pretend that it isn’t truly happening. That is until a big milestone like a birthday. When suddenly you are faced with all the growth and evolution all at once, and there is nowhere to hide from it. Or a haircut that suddenly reveals the fact that your baby boy is no longer a baby.

I treasure getting to watch my children grow. I feel beyond blessed that I get to be here to watch them each day, year, and beyond. But I can’t help but also resent time.

So for now I will go hug my babies. I will take in the smell of their heads. The feeling of their chubby little toes curled up against my legs. Their fingers wrapped around mine. The sound of their voices high and full of excitement. I’ll take in the haircut that I resent so much. Feeling the soft short curls, until one day I’ll run my fingers through them, and they will have all grown back.

Always,

Timmarie

“How do you entertain them?”

“You guys are crazy!”

Or my personal favorite “that’s so brave of you.”

Now I wouldn’t go as far as to call it brave. The adjectives that come to mind are much more along the lines of insane, questionably optimistic, or even delusional.

Before every flight I pray for an easy one.

I don’t even get specific anymore.

“Lord, if it’s your will...please let this one be easier.”

I’m convinced He’s trying to teach me something because so far the answer has been a resounding no.

Truth be told, flying with my daughter Aaliyana was actually very easy until she was around 14 months. I was that mom that assumed I was just doing everything right and we would have perfect little traveling children the rest of our lives. That is until it all fell apart and I was given a giant glass of humility.

We took a red eye from John Wayne (Santa Ana, CA) to Newark. We didn’t get her a seat because she was typically so easy. I figured she would sleep the entire time. It was a full flight and she cried the ENTIRE six hours. I also cried and this time it wasn’t because I was watching “Marley and Me.” (I suggest against sad movies on planes if you don’t want your seat mates to look over at you with concern).

After that I understood that flying with littles is as unpredictable as a toddler with an uncapped sharpie. It will challenge you, push you to your limits, and yes keep you very humble.

My son is the 2^nd born. He has never been easy, and flying with him…miserable from day one. My husband affectionately refers to him being on the no-fly list. Truthfully, he would probably choose to have another vasectomy over a flight with Zayden. Considering he has already had one, that’s really saying something.

My son Zayden is a Tasmanian devil wrapped up in the most perfect golden brown skin and dimples that could literally get him exonerated from murder. He has also never slept for more than forty minutes on a plane. It’s a give and take with him.

To give you a taste of the sort of wild child he is, there was a flight where he started throwing things. He couldn’t have been more than one and a half. He picked up a toy to throw at my daughter. I grabbed it from him and as I was shoving it in my bag, he snatched my daughter’s headphones and launched them over the seat in front of us, hitting the sleeping passenger and almost giving her a heart attack.

I was HORRIFIED. I apologized. I disciplined him. I apologized again. But in the end, it had happened, and there was nothing I could do to undo it. The woman could not have been more gracious. Which of course only made me feel worse.

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I would like to say it gets easier the more you do it, and while it may be partially true, it’s not a guarantee. What you need to remember is that you are doing your best, and that’s the only thing that is truly in your control.

On our last trip we flew from St Martin to JFK before heading back to Ca a few days later. A short flight. Only 4 hours compared to the 6-hour trans continental we typically do with them.

Zayden was shockingly easy. He slept for half the flight. I actually got to watch part of a movie (because sleeping on a plane as a mom is just not a thing…my husband however is a different story). Now don’t get me wrong when I say easy, I mean comparatively to his normal feral plane behavior, but I was beyond grateful for the break. I thought to myself maybe God is done teaching me through trials on flights.

We were nearing the end of the flight and he became fussy. Crying. Whining. He started cuddling me, which he almost never does, so I thought it was weird, but I was so thankful for the easier flight that I could handle thirty minutes of crying.

Then right as the wheels come out to get us prepared for landing, he vomits.

Not just a spit up. A massive vomit all over himself, and me.

Maybe it was the bag of gummy bears I continuously fed him to keep him happy, maybe it was the insane turbulence, or the bug his cousin had. I’ll never know. But somehow, not a drop got on my daughter who was in the seat next to us, but all my belongings and our clothes were destroyed. Thankfully my husband and mom were sitting across the aisle and handed us their barf bags. Then the stranger in front of us quietly reached their arm back with theirs too.

And yes...all three bags were used.

As soon as we touched down, I had to rush back to the bathroom. The two of us leaving a trail of stink behind us. I waited until everyone was off the plane and then carried my dazed 2.5-year-old wearing only a diaper off the plane with a blue trash bag full of vomit covered clothing and personal items.

I was soaked.

Even my underwear was wet.

The crazy thing is my husband still told everyone that was his best flight yet! Although I would argue not being covered in puke made that an easier comment to make.

This is just one example of one flight. There are dozens of others that have made me question why we would ever step back onto another airplane with the kids.

But we do.

Flying with little kids is like running a marathon on a treadmill. It’s as much mental as it is physical. You have to stay mentally grounded or you will be overcome.

The discomfort and the stress will end the moment that jet bridge door opens.

After our horrible red eye with Aaliyana, as I was making my way to the restroom in the terminal, a random man comes up next to me.

He touches me on the shoulder and looks me straight in the eyes.

“You made it. It’s all over and you did great and it’s over now. Give yourself some grace.”

I immediately started sobbing. Tears running down my face. I started apologizing for my daughter. He stopped me and said,

“We have all been there. I had twins and let me tell you I still have nightmares about our worst flight. You get through it and it will get easier as they grow up.”

This kind man has no idea the impact he had on me. Those words, his gentleness, and understanding, they have stuck with me. I replay those words in my head every time we get on a plane. Because it is nice to remember that people are often a great deal kinder than we give them credit for.

While I refuse to sugar coat the tough stuff, I can also offer you some reprieve. That 14 month old girl who cried an entire red eye is now an expert flyer at 4 years old. I would say the flip really switched at age 3. She now packs her own bags. Tells me what she wants for her snacks, sets up her little seat with her blank and her stuffy and is essentially self-sufficient on the flight. She has even figured out how to sleep and will frequently nap the majority of the flight. As long as her little brother doesn’t wake her up by kicking her in the head, of course. I’d like to think the suffering early on is what led us here.

Although I don’t expect my son to suddenly get easier in a few months, he has his moments that give me hope. Like the one on our last flight where he took his sheet and tucked his sister in because she was sleeping while telling me

“Shhhhh Mama, Nani seeping.”

Yes my heart did explode.

Of course there are things that you can control to try to make your flights easier.

Pack extra clothes. Bring enough snacks to feed a tiny village. Have something like a sucker or a bottle for ear pressure. You can find about a million people who will give you the formula for a perfect flight. Those things matter, but they don’t guarantee an easy flight.

Flying with kids is wonderfully unpredictable. I still find it unenjoyable, sometimes I’d even call it miserable. I still pray the same prayer before every flight. And I typically still get the same answer.

But it’s never about the flight. The flight is the price of admission. The work you put in to get to the finish line. The memories you make with your children on vacation are the destination. And you never know, you might have a magical flight where the kids nap until landing.

Or you might carry a half-naked toddler and a trash bag of vomit soaked belongings through customs.

And somehow, six months later, you’ll book another flight and do it all again.

Because the flight is temporary.

The memories aren’t.

Always,

Timmarie

I have been putting off this article. A month ago, I had the idea to start a travel Substack. To write about the trips my husband and I have taken as a couple and then later as family with our daughter and then our son.

The idea came to me shortly after we returned from multi-generational family trip to St Martin. A few things happened that I will get into later, that made me think there was really a niche that I don’t often see filled.

You see, I am an average traveler. Traveling is not my full time job. I am not a digital nomad, or an expat who discovered herself living in a flat in Paris. I don’t slow travel spending months on end on a European holiday. I’m not an adventurer, seeking out the roads less traveled. We are just your everyday average Americans who get a few vacations a year and like to spend them in some cool places. And honestly, I would consider ourselves very blessed to even have that opportunity.

This is where I found my niche.

Because I suspect, there are more people out there like me than we realize. People taking their first trip abroad. Parents braving a transatlantic flight with a toddler. Couples trying to squeeze every ounce out of their 5 precious days of PTO.

Don’t get me wrong, I have no judgement for expert travelers. I am actually very jealous. I spend my time fantasizing about having your life. Packing up my little family and moving to a chateau in France or a villa in Spain, leaving tomorrow and never coming back. But that isn’t my reality…and if it was, I would be doing it as a single mom because my husband does not share this fantasy.

I have a life here in southern California. One that I love, with friends and family who come over for pool days and sports games. In all seriousness I wouldn’t trade my life if I could, because traveling isn’t my sole identity. I spend roughly 5% of my life traveling. The other 95% is spent being a mom, a wife, a friend, an ordinary person who loves the life she has created.

When I came to Substack with the intentions of starting a travel site, a few things happened. First, I was overwhelmed by the amount of travel accounts with expert travelers. People who spend their lives traveling and have much more interesting things to say with a lot more content than my 2 weeks a year. Then I found the momstack world. Which is probably the loveliest corner of the internet right now. Instead of sticking to travel I just began writing what felt right. A lot of that happened to be about being a mom, but I realized motherhood isn’t my sole identity either. And certainly not an area I claim to be an expert in. As I brainstormed ideas I was bombarded by “grow your Substack” articles saying to niche down. Go smaller.

But trying to fit into someone else’s niche wasn’t working for me.

Instead, I decided to stop chasing a niche and start building one that actually fits my life.

I would be lying if I said I don’t doubt myself. I do. Most of my subscribers are friends who have never heard of Substack. Who all received a mass text from my cheerleader of a husband, guilting them into following along. If that’s you, I’m sorry, I love you, please don’t leave!

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In the month since starting my Substack I have felt a change. I began to read again. Actual tangible books. I’ve read four. I started paying attention. To the small things, the little moments, the passing conversations. My brain turned on in a way it hasn’t in a while. I wake up in the middle of the night with an idea I have to write down. I feel creative. I feel brave, and I feel like me.

As a mom of young children, it is so easy to lose oneself in motherhood. It is all consuming and while so beautiful, also so hard. This is the first time I have felt like a person other than “just a mom. Not that I minded. Quite the opposite, actually. I think it’s so important for my kids to see me as more than their mom. As a human with dreams and goals and hobbies.

So here I am.

A lover of many things, an expert of none.

But I have a voice and I have stories to tell. If you stick around, which I hope you do, this is what you can expect from me.

Travel- Hotels worth staying at, the restaurant that you will still be thinking about months later, honest opinions, real experiences, and achievable itineraries. And the stories that come from them.

Motherhood-The joy. The chaos. The magic, and the mistakes made along the way. From someone who doesn’t pretend to have it all figured out.

The In between-My garden, the monarchs we raise, exploring home in Southern California, and the ordinary moments that make life beautiful.

Honestly Away may be rooted in travel, but it’s really about the other 95% of life. Afternoons in the garden with nature. Bedtime conversations with my kids. The meal worth crossing an ocean for, and everything in between. Because that’s where the stories begin.

I’m so glad you are here.

Always

Timmarie

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This is not an article about a mom who was over worked and underpaid. My job gave me balance. Flexibility. Purpose.

But I still left.

Recently, I was speaking to someone who knew me originally from work.

Why aren’t you working right now?

Can’t you put the kids in school yet?

We have to get you back in the industry, you are too good at what you do.

I did what I always do, as a life-long people pleaser.

Oh, I was just taking some time while Zayden was little. I am definitely going back to work. I miss it I would love to get back in. I just didn’t love the last company I worked for.

It wasn’t until later that night that I thought about what I had done. What I always do really.

I succumb to the pressure of what other people expect of me. To what their idea of a happy life is. I agree with them that I should be working. Or even worse I try to make up excuses for why I left that validates some made up rationale I have.

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When I began writing this article I intended to focus on the pressure to stay a working mom. I wrote 3 drafts couldn’t get to the point I was trying to make. I even went as far as to put it through ChatGPT to ask it if I was making any sense. Yes, I asked a literal robot if human beings would think my essay made sense. And you know what? Even Chat with its agreeable, sycophant-like tendencies couldn’t agree with this article.

But maybe it wasn’t the topic that was wrong

Maybe it was the point I was focusing on.

I was raised by a stay at home mom. There were 4 of us and my dad was a firefighter. In southern California that means he worked over 24 hour shifts often multiple in a row. My mom was superwoman. Literally I don’t know how she managed to keep our house, and my siblings and I in order the way she did.

I felt lucky to have a stay at home mom. I actually remember feeling sorry for my friends whose mother’s had to work because they got so much less time with them. But somewhere along the way that changed.

I won’t bore you with the story of my job and what I did. I won’t drag on about how I worked then took time off, then went back, then left again. Although one of my scrapped version did include far too much of that.

The point is I left. I left an amazing career. With an amazing salary. Amazing community. And I don’t regret it.

But to others I justify. I go through lengthy explanations to defend my reasoning. I suggest it’s not really what I want. But why?

Why is my definition of happiness, although it may differ from someone else’s, not good enough for me?

When I reflected on the conversation that sparked this idea, I realized the person I was talking to didn’t necessarily care. What I do with my life has absolutely no effect on her. She doesn’t benefit from it one way or another. She was simply making conversation, and honestly she was complimenting me. She didn’t ask me to defend my choice.

I did that myself. I projected my own insecurities about my decision onto her. I do that far more often than I am comfortable admitting.

I even do this in both directions.

To my working friends I’m Timmarie who loves working. Who is just taking a little time off. The Timmarie who misses the industry and my identity and can’t wait to get back. I talk about some freelance work I am doing and make sure they know I haven’t given it all up.

To my stay at home mom friends I am Timmarie the mom. Timmarie who couldn’t fathom going back to work and leaving my babies at home. The one who insists there is nowhere I’d rather be than at home with my children.

Somewhere along the way I realized I was tailoring myself to whoever was standing in front of me. Not because they were asking me to.

Because I wanted them to approve of my answer. To validate my choices.

I spend my time trying to make everyone around me happy. I work tirelessly to make other people feel like they are right even if I disagree. It’s something I have done my entire life. In friendships, relationships, with family. I conform to who I think they want me to be. But that’s not a them problem.

It’s a me problem.

What if people pleasing isn’t actually about pleasing other people, but more about pleasing ourselves. Making ourselves feel safe. Accepted. Well liked.

Now that my daughter is almost 5, I see similar characteristics in her. I see her agree when she doesn’t want to. Compliment when she thinks she should, be easy because that’s what people like. And honestly I want to shake her.

I want to grab her by the shoulders and tell her to stop! Tell her to be her own person and confident in who she is. To own her opinions even when they may not be the popular ones. To not lose herself by trying to be someone that everyone likes.

Because no matter how hard you try it will never work. Her and I are the same. I would say we are both genuinely kind people. We don’t mind making sacrifices for others. It is not all inherently bad to be a people pleaser, but I’ve realized there is a balance. A balance between being who I am and being who I think I should be.

My definition of happiness doesn’t have to match anyone else’s. It doesn’t even have to stay the same. For now I want to be a stay at home mom. I want the mundane and the simple days. And I am proud of that choice. I might decide I want to go back to work tomorrow, I might decide I want to go back in 18 years. Or I might not.

Today I choose the splashing in the pool with summer days that seem to last forever. I choose to be paid in messy toddler kisses and pay the tax of changing a stinky toddler diaper. I choose sticky popsicle covered hands pulling me to play one more round of soccer on the grass. I choose afternoons on the outdoor couch with two bodies smelling of chlorine and watermelon leaning against me as we watch Spidey for the 400^th time.

Because that’s what happiness looks like for the Timmarie of today.

And for the first time, I don’t feel the need to explain why.

Always,

Timmarie

Useful

Souvenirs come in all shapes and sizes.

Keychains, magnets, creepy shot glasses with boobs on them.

To each their own.

But something I do try to remember is practicality. Is this item I love something that will sit on the shelf never quite finding its home? Or is this something that I can reach for frequently and enjoy the fond memories that come with it?

It might be a mug or a ceramic serving plate.
A linen shirt from Greece?If you will wear it, perfect!

Buying something useful will weed out a lot of the junk right off the bat.

Unique

If I can easily go on Amazon and have the same item shipped by Monday morning, I probably don't need it.

Not that it couldn't be great, but if the exact same item is on Amazon, or in every single souvenir shop you pass... there's a good chance that's where the shop got it too.
Your hard earned vacay money can be better spent elsewhere.
Even when it comes to things like wine you can get trapped into buying something you don't need.

I once brought a ton of wine back from Greece, only to realize I could literally purchase the entire contents of my suitcase at home.

For cheaper.

And I wouldn't have had to pay for the extra luggage, or wine angel bubble wraps.

Buy the wine that you had at a special dinner on your trip that you KNOW you won't be able to get at home.

All this to say do some research, and buy things that make sense.

Handmade

There is something really special about a handmade item.

And I don't mean the fake printed drawings that the scammers in Rome pretend they are drawing.

Truly handmade items can't be replicated, so it's two birds one stone.

By buying something handmade, especially if you buy it directly from the artist, you are supporting local artisans and going home with something that will literally be irreplaceable.

Some of my favorite handmade items to purchase are pottery or ceramics, and art.

I have even created (or have plans to create, currently it is all laying across our office desk as it has for the last 6 months) a gallery wall of local art from all the places we have traveled.

Antique

I might be alone on this one but I LOVE an antique.

Something about the fact that it was used and had a life long before it ended up on a table in a flea market in France just does something to me.

I've always romanticized history.

Ever since I was a girl I have loved reading historical fiction. It transports me to a different time and place, and antique objects represent that in a tangible way.

And not for nothing but I truly think things were made way better back "in the old days."

Today I can't buy a necklace that lasts for more than a few months, but somehow a random brooch from 1901 is still in pristine condition.

Free

There are souvenirs that cost little to nothing that can be found all around you when traveling.

The matchbox from the restaurant where you had your favorite meal.

The coaster from the bar where you stayed until closing.

You get the picture.

Get creative, while also following all rules, please.

I'm writing a travel article, not encouraging a life of petty crime.

But some of the best souvenirs come from you.

If there is one thing that becoming a mother has taught me, it's that you will forget all of the things you swore you never would.

The way your child pronounces a certain word.

The funny face they make that makes everyone laugh.

The little details that felt far too important to ever slip away.

The little moments will fade with time, replaced by other unforgettable moments and the cycle will continue.

I once read a study that estimated the average human can recall only the tiniest fraction of their lived experiences.

The rest just floats around in the great abyss of our minds.

But there are some ways to help preserve these, if even just a little.

Travel journals.
Photos.
Videos.

A travel journal can be an amazing tool. Before you freak out I don't mean that you have to carry around a leather bound notebook and document every part of your day.
Although I did witness a traveler doing this at a cafe in Malta. I know because I'm nosey and I peeked over his shoulder... yes I know I have issues.

But really a travel journal can be as simple as using talk to text to jot down a few memorable moments in your notes app before you brush your teeth for the night.

Photos and videos serve the same purpose.

While most of ours end up buried in our 78,563 photos and videos (yes this is my actual current count) on our camera rolls, there is something special about revisiting them years later.

A photo can capture what a moment looked like.

A video captures the sounds, the movement, and often the parts of the memory you didn't even realize you would miss.

The way your child laughed. The sound of the waves crashing against the cliffs.

Print the photos. Make a photobook.
Heck, Shutterfly will literally do it for you! Save the videos and make a slideshow.
The goal isn't perfection, it's giving yourself a way back to those moments when the details begin to fade away.

Side note: I am a BIG proponent for paying for family photos during trips, but I will leave that for its own article at a later date.

In the end I buy souvenirs.

I bought my kids 2 very overpriced toy reptiles and I have zero regrets about it. You can too.

Of course not every souvenir has to make sense to anyone else.

Sometimes an item catches your eye simply because it reminds you of your grandmother's shelf, your childhood bedroom, or a memory you can't quite explain.

That's reason enough.

If you want to, if it sparks joy as Marie Kondo says, if it will take you back to a moment you want to relive, get it.

I'm not here to tell you not to.

But I am here to challenge you.

Don't do it because you feel like you have to.
Picture or it didn't happen.
Souvenir or you didn't go.

I say F that.
Buy a souvenir because it makes you happy! Because it is what you want to do.

But try to remember you can't buy memories.

Too often when we travel we are too preoccupied trying to show everyone else how amazing it is we forget to actually experience it.

So next time you are on a trip take some time to experience, not just see, but truly experience by immersing yourself in the world around you, and it will likely bring you more joy than any $10 replica of the Eiffel Tower ever would.

Years from now, it probably won't be the things that really transport you back, but the smell of roasted nuts from a street vendor. Or a movie scene filmed on a street you once spent an afternoon wandering down. A song that played in the taxi on the way to dinner.

The best parts of travel have always been the experiences, not the things.

Which is probably why my daughter loves her treasures so much. They aren't valuable because of what they are. They are valuable because of the story behind them, because she discovered them, because they remind her of a moment.

And just maybe that's what we have all been trying to collect all along.

Always,

Timmarie

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Its July 2017, I’m 24 years old, standing behind the DJ booth in the VIP section of a nightclub in Ibiza with my boyfriend of seven months and a dozen of his closest friends.

It’s almost 4 a.m.

The music is pounding. People are packed in like sardines. Everyone around me is having the time of their lives.

Everyone except me.

I’m hungry. I’m exhausted. I haven’t slept in what feels like forever. And I’m deeply confused about why everyone in this nightclub appears to be dressed like Jesus.

Standing there in ripped jean shorts, a tank top, and sandals—painfully underdressed and entirely too sober for whatever is happening around me.

Fighting back tears, ok maybe the tears were actually flowing already, I turn to my boyfriend and tell him this entire trip was a mistake. He should put me on the next flight back to California in the morning.

We finally get a taxi and head back to our villa. I want nothing to do with him. All I can think about is how much of a mistake this was and how I was crazy to think that us being from two different worlds would work. My version of a late night was getting drunk off two lemon drop shots, and begging our Uber driver to drive through Del taco at 2 AM on the way home a few times a year. So clubbing in Ibiza was not something I was made for.

Now is probably a good time to point out just how different my boyfriend and I were in case you haven’t already gathered that.

I was 24 he was 40.

I am 5’9. He was 5’2 1/2.

I was a fairly naïve innocent girl from Southern California and he was a not so naïve Indian guy who grew up in New Jersey and had a bachelor pad in Manhattan.

Pretty much as different as you can get, but somehow he had a pull on me that I couldn’t deny no matter how hard I tried. My family and friends thought I was crazy. There was no way we would work.

His friends thought it was a fling and I would end up ghosting him at some point.

No one thought we were meant for one another, and standing in that nightclub I was thinking that they were all right.

But here I am 9 years later. That boyfriend that was so wrong for me is now my husband. The father of our 2 amazing children. My best friend.

Looking at the photos now, you’d never know I spent that trip questioning everything. You’d see the cliffside spa, the turquoise water, the whitewashed streets of Ibiza. You wouldn’t see the tears in the taxi ride home or the certainty that we were too different to last.

When Amit had asked me to come to Ibiza with him and his friends a few months prior, I had no hesitation.

I was so excited to travel that even being in the Paris airport during our layover felt special to me and arriving in Ibiza was amazing. After going to our villa and meeting all his friends, we went straight to kayaking.

The instructor gathered us all as a group to go over some things. He outlined where we would be going and some basic safety instructions then he paused. He looked directly at me and said “the larger of the duo must sit in the back of the kayak.” Obviously I was the only female who was “larger” than their partner so it was literally just for me. They also ended up giving Amit a child sized paddle, so he essentially sat there while I did all the work. But the views were incredible and it was shaping up to be a perfect week. Or so I thought.

After kayaking we went back to the villa to get ready for the evening out. One of Amit’s closet friends from college had just started a residency at Heart Ibiza and everyone said it would be the best time. No big deal right? I was dressed and ready to go at 11pm. Which is when I was told we wouldn’t be leaving the villa for the club until at least 2am.

Not getting home at 2am.

Leaving for the club at 2am!

As someone who was very new to this scene, this was unfathomable. That should have been my first clue that this night was doomed, but I’m a people pleaser who pretends to go with the flow, so along I went.

The rest goes about exactly how you can imagine. I had nothing to drink (truly I wasn’t really a drinker at this point) and no drugs- I was the D.A.R.E student of the year in 5^th grade...”just say NO to drugs” which I wore as a badge of pride.

Walking into that night club felt like walking into an alternate universe. Everything was so foreign to me, and I was so exhausted, so when Amit took me to meet his friend who was DJing and his wife, I was already on edge. Then he left me.

Yes, left me alone, to go help the rest of the group get into the VIP area.

In his defense he left me backstage with his best friend’s wife. To him this seemed like the safest and best place while he needed to help the others out. To me I felt like a lost child who had been abandoned by her parents in the middle of Disneyland with strangers all around.

I stood there knowing this was all a mistake. Our friends and family were right. It didn’t matter how much we loved each other, some things you just can’t get past. And I was only delaying the inevitable by not admitting it.

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Obviously, this story didn’t end with me leaving Ibiza and saying goodbye to Amit forever. After some much needed sleep, and a LOT of talking, and yes more crying on my part, we were able to work through it. I decided to stick it out and see how the rest of the trip went, probably the single best decision I made in my life.

The remainder of the trip was a totally different experience. Amit surprised me with a visit to Spa La Posidonia for my 25^th birthday. It is the most incredible spa with waterfalls and pools carved into the face of the cliff. We sat together staring out over the Mediterranean as the setting sun peeking through the clouds sending golden rays shooting across the water. We shared a bottle of very dry local wine, and for a beautiful evening, I stopped worrying about the future and what it held. Just me, this guy that was completely wrong for me, and the sound of the waves crashing against the cliffs below us. Truly an experience that I will hold on to forever.

A few days ago we celebrated our 7th wedding anniversary. A wedding that took place in San Jose Del Cabo, in part due to our love for travel. As we do every anniversary, we watched our wedding video with our kids, and I was struck by one of the lines in my vows. I had completely forgotten but it led me to dig out my vow book that I had saved, because obviously, I am the sentimental type, and read over them.

“You introduced me to a new world that exceeded every dream I had for myself...I knew something was different about you, but I was conflicted. What was I feeling for this Jersey boy who was my opposite in almost every way. I think about how us working defied all logic. About how many tiny pieces had to fall into place just for us to meet, let alone end up here at the altar. My life is nothing of what I imagined it would be, but I can honestly say it is so much better.”

Those words were as true 7 years ago as they are now.

Ibiza wasn’t the trip that I expected it to be. And Amit certainly was not the man that 6-year-old Timmarie imagined when planning her future wedding.

If we had met on a dating app we both would have swiped left. Our family and friends would never put us together. But that’s the funny thing about love. Sometimes the person who looks completely wrong for you on paper, ends up being the most right.

I won’t pretend our marriage is perfect and that our differences don’t lead to arguments. If anything, raising children together has highlighted many of the differences in the way we grew up. We come from different worlds, different coasts, different generations, and let’s be honest...different heights.

But somewhere between the nightclub in Ibiza, and the life we’ve built today, I learned that compatibility isn’t about being the same person. It’s about choosing each other anyway. Again and again.

Looking back, I’m so grateful that 24-year-old me didn’t get on that plane home. Because the life waiting on the other side of that trip was better than anything I could have ever imagined for myself. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned since then, it’s that God’s plans for us are often far bigger than our own, and thank goodness for that!

Always,

Timmarie

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We sipped rosé while the kids tried and failed to catch the little clear fish swimming around our legs. French music drifted over from the beach club behind us, boats floated in the distance, and St. Martin rose dramatically out of the sea in front of us. Both toddlers were somehow napping on the beach and for a brief moment it felt like one of those impossibly beautiful travel days you wish you could freeze in time.

Which is, of course, exactly when my 5-year-old niece decided to loudly determine whether I or my husband looked older.

My husband is 16 years older than me and turning 50 this year. He is also six inches shorter than me, so I assumed she was basing it off our heights.

Disclaimer: people are always shocked at how young my husband looks when they hear his age. I started dating him at 24... he had just turned 40, which at the time I rightfully considered ancient.

Since then, my life has become a constant stream of:

“Wow, he looks so young.”

“I would never have guessed he was that old.”

Or my personal favorite:

“I thought you guys were the same age!”

Which, if we’re being honest, isn’t exactly flattering for the younger spouse.

In all fairness, he does look amazing for his age. I’d like to think his immaturity contributes to it, but who am I to say?

Amit is, of course, of Indian descent. As a fair-skinned woman who is often described as “red,” I’m aware aging probably isn’t going to be particularly kind to me. Thankfully, with Amit’s help, we managed to pass along the beautiful melanin-rich skin that ages far more gracefully to our children.

Back to my niece.

Amit’s hair has gone fully salt and pepper now, and his wrinkles have become a little more visible over the past few years. He blames me and the children. I prefer to think they’re smile lines from the complete and total joy we’ve brought into his life.

So I explained to my niece that it wasn’t about height, it was about looks. She carefully looked us both up and down, analyzing our faces, before confidently announcing:

“Then yes, you are much older, Tata.”

Another side note: because Timmarie is apparently an impossible name for toddlers, my nephew — the first grandchild in the family — nicknamed me Tata years ago. It’s always been a running joke in our family, which became especially unfortunate when a group of topless French women walked by and my 7-year-old nephew loudly screamed my name as they headed into the ocean. A situation that felt significantly harder to explain across language barriers.

But anyway, I was genuinely shocked by my niece’s comment. How could I possibly look older?

Then my angelic firstborn stepped in to defend my honor. She’s a mama’s girl through and through, so I happily welcomed the backup.

“No! Daddy has more wrinkles. Mommy just has more zits.”

Amit immediately burst into hysterical laughter while I gracefully removed myself from the group of tiny tyrants to sip my rose in shame.

And honestly?

She’s not wrong.

I think about that day often.

And somehow, I remember it so vividly not because of a perfectly curated photo, but because of the real life that happened there.

Turns out the moments you remember most from beautiful trips usually aren’t the perfect pictures.

They’re the moments where you’re standing on a beautiful beach sipping rosé while a pack of miniature humans absolutely destroy your self-esteem.

Beautiful travel isn’t ruined by kids or real life.

Real life is what makes it beautiful.

Always,

Timmarie

I start reading and get to

“My mom is really great at: drawing planes.”

Yes, drawing, what are known in our house as boppys — the planes my 2 year old son requests, usually by yelling at me until I comply.

Do I enjoy it? Not necessarily. Does it make him happy? Absolutely… for about 2.5 seconds until he demands I draw another.

So why is this silly, slightly annoying little game I play with my son something so memorable that my 4 year old sees it as one of my greatest skill?

Well, I think the answer is much like what’s important in travel.

We live in a curated world. Everything is planned, edited, and filtered. We share our best moments online for all our friends (and let’s be honest, our enemies) to see and marvel at what a great life we live.

Your adorable family celebrating Mother’s Day together. Not pictured: the fact that you had to force everyone awake early enough to “do something special” and pretend like they enjoyed it.

Or the date night you posted because alone time is so important, without mentioning how you had to pry tiny hands off your legs and sneak out the door to the sound of screaming and tears in the background.

And on the other side of perfection culture is constant negativity. Complaining about marriages, kids, jobs until everything starts to feel heavy.

Where is the real life? The little moments that actually make up most of our days.

The hug from your 2 year old that leaves a combination of snot, dirt, and something unidentified on your new shirt. The grown-out nails because who has time to go to the salon? Or drawing the millionth boppy of the day while your kids cheer you on like you’re Picasso.

Those are the moments that make life, well… life. Beautiful, chaotic, exhausting, and perfectly imperfect.

So what does any of this have to do with travel?

In my opinion, travel is one of the greatest gifts we can experience with the people we love — or even by ourselves. But like life, travel isn’t perfect. No matter how much planning you do, things will go wrong.

Travel influencer culture has saturated travel with filtered expectations and very little reality. It’s time we bring honesty back to the table. The things that were worth it, and the things that fell short. The misery of flying with a toddler… no matter how many snacks and Amazon toys you packed. Or the unexpected joy of finding baby ducks during a morning walk along the river.

Travel is beautiful because of those in-between moments. The ones you can’t plan for. The blurry picture because everyone was laughing too hard to stand still long enough to take it.

It might not make the feed, but it will fill your cup.

Because just like drawing boppys you’ll find the magic in the little things while traveling if you know where to look for it.

And that’s what I’m here for. To share experiences, advice, and mistakes. To simplify your planning and help carry some of the burden that travel can bring.

Because the best parts of travel are usually the ones you never planned for. Until then you will find me here, happily drawing boppys and finding beauty in the in-between.

Honestly Away,

Timmarie