Dancing Tides

If you asked my mom to critique this painting, she'd probably smile and tell you it isn't the strongest composition.

My Aunt Nan completely disagreed.

For nearly twenty years, she kept this photograph because every time she looked at it, she smiled.

Every summer, our family gathered at DeBordieu Island, and before the house filled with the sounds of children waking up, four women shared a quiet tradition. My Mimi, my mom, my Aunt Nan, and my Aunt Beth would wake before sunrise, wrap themselves in their bathrobes, pour a cup of coffee, and either sit together on the porch or wander slowly along the beach.

It wasn't planned. It wasn't extraordinary.

It was simply their time.

Just the sound of the waves, the smell of fresh coffee mixed with the salt air, and the peaceful conversations that only seem to happen before the rest of the world wakes up.

When I mentioned that the photograph wasn't the strongest composition for a painting, Aunt Nan smiled and said, "I don't care. It always makes me smile."

That was all the reason I needed.

I painted Dancing Tides as a thank-you gift after everything she did for me during my IVF journey. Through one of the most difficult seasons of my life, her encouragement, generosity, and unwavering support reminded me what family looks like at its very best.

This painting isn't really about a beach.

It's about the people who make a place feel like home, the ordinary traditions that become our most treasured memories, and the photographs we keep—not because they're perfect, but because they remind us how it felt to be there.