the journey to hiraeth

There are places that live in us long after we leave them. For me, it’s the river.

The one where I spent every summer of my childhood—its name unspoken here, as if holding it close might keep the magic intact. It’s been two long years since I last stood on its rocky shores, since I smelled pine and sunscreen in the same breath, since I watched the sun scatter itself across the water like glass.

Life, as it does, had other plans. Pregnancy. Newborn days. Storms and circumstances. But this year—this summer—we made it back. And this time, I brought my boys.

We planned for months. Obsessively packed every comfort we could squeeze into the car. A 10-month-old who hates car rides, a high-energy two-year-old with long legs and a wild heart, and two very determined parents. We woke at 2 a.m. to load our lives into the car like Tetris pieces, bleary-eyed but buzzing with anticipation. We caravanned behind my mom, who carried the soul of our supplies in a hitched trailer, but quickly lost formation in the tangle of freeway exits and detours, breastfeeding breaks and backseat meltdowns.

By the time we reached the familiar entrance, my heart ached to exhale. And then—a sign I’d never seen in all my years—Campsites Full.

My stomach dropped.

This river has always held space for me. Always. The idea that it wouldn’t now, after all this—after carrying babies and years and longing—was almost too much.

But we drove in anyway. I told myself we’d just “see.” And there, like something out of a dream, stood my mom and stepdad and little brother, like sentries holding a spot in time. They had found us campsites. If we hadn’t gotten separated, if they hadn’t arrived first—it would’ve been gone. The timing, it turned out, was perfect after all.

We set up in the heat. My boys, cramped and restless after six hours in car seats, squirmed and fussed in the playpen while sweat slid down my back. My toddler tried to climb out every five minutes. My baby wailed for milk, for motion, for anything other than this new place. We were all overdressed for the rising sun, still wearing the cozy layers we’d left the city in.

That first day was brutal. The first night, worse. Crying children in the deep blackness of a forest night can make even the strongest resolve crack. I lay in the tent with tears in my eyes, whispering to the shadows, Maybe we should just go home.

But morning came, as it always does. And with it, a tiny shift.

I took the boys to the river with my mom so their dad could catch his breath. I didn’t know how long I could last either. But as the sun climbed and the water sparkled, something began to unfurl in me. A peace, slow and tentative, like the first warm breeze after a storm.

We began to settle into rhythm.

Mornings with oatmeal and cocoa around the campfire. No screens. Just voices, steam, and sleepy smiles. Afternoons on the river until the sun dipped low—floating, swimming, digging, drifting. My boys discovered the joy of catching polliwogs and chasing minnows, eating lunch with sandy hands, taking naps while the current rocked them.

They loved the water more than I ever did at their age. They loved it so much they fell asleep in my arms while I stood waist-deep in the icy current, sun on our backs. I placed them in an orange inflatable boat marked “Explore 100” and walked the riverbank slowly as they floated, eyes fluttering shut in pure peace. I’d guide the boat gently to shore and let them nap in the shade, in that little orange cradle of memory.

It was hard. It was holy. It was hiraeth.

Not just homesickness—but soul-sickness for something you once knew, something you never really lost, something that lives inside you still.

That river is part of me. And now, it’s part of them.

We came back to something old, something sacred, something carved deep in my bones—and we left it changed, just a little, just enough. New memories stitched to old ones like a patchwork quilt, warm with the weight of generations.

I don’t know if my boys will remember this first river trip. But I will.

I’ll remember the exhaustion and the joy, the moments I thought we might break, and the ones where we bloomed instead. I’ll remember the way their laughter echoed off the water and how the trees stood tall, as if they’d been waiting for us to return.

And I’ll remember this: that sometimes, when the journey is hardest, the arrival is most sacred.

We made it back. And we’ll go again.