Lessons from Mother's Beach
6/10/2025 11:01 am
Every summer, my family escapes the heat in North Texas to stay at my parents' small house in Seal Beach, California. We can walk to the ocean from their place—and we do, almost daily. But there's always the question: should we wrangle the kids into the car for the short drive to Mother's Beach for a day instead? It's less than ten minutes away, tucked into Alamitos Bay where there's no surf to worry about, no rip tides—just calm, contained water perfect for kids. This year, as I sat watching the familiar scene unfold, something clicked into place that I'd been sensing but never quite articulated: I was witnessing something revolutionary.
Mother's Beach feels different from other beaches. Not just because of the calm waters or the excellent playground (though both help), but because of an invisible agreement that seems to hover over the entire space. Here, all families are on the same page. We're not doing this alone.
I watched it happen over and over: a lifeguard racing toward a little girl who'd popped up unexpectedly in the water. "You gave me a scare," he told her, breathless but gentle. "I can swim," she assured him with the confidence only children possess. "You can? Can you swim to me right now?" he requested, not dismissing her claim but asking her to prove it in a way that kept everyone safe. It wasn't her parent who'd noticed—it was a lifeguard whose job was to watch everyone's children as if they were his own.
That interaction stayed with me because it captured something I'd been feeling all day: the sense that at Mother's Beach, everyone's kids matter to everyone. The Tejano music from one family's speaker blended seamlessly with Kendrick Lamar from another. Paleta carts wove through the crowd, vendors calling out in Spanish and English, part of the ecosystem of care that made this place work. Kids darted between families, sometimes playing with children they'd never met, while parents nodded acknowledgment across blankets and beach chairs.
Watching it all, I was transported back to my childhood near Elmwood Village in Buffalo, where our little slice of neighborhood operated on the same invisible agreement. I remember it well—how I was always looked after, even when my mom was nowhere to be seen. A web of adults who saw every child as their responsibility, who created safety through collective attention rather than individual vigilance.
What I'm witnessing at Mother's Beach is the same tradition my Buffalo neighborhood embodied: community-based parenting that doesn't just happen accidentally but emerges from communities that have learned they must rely on each other. It's what Black women have always known about motherhood—that raising children is revolutionary work that requires revolutionary methods. That sometimes the people watching your back are the ones who understand that nobody else is going to do it.
I know I'm coming to this realization as someone who is half Latina but appears white, someone whose own childhood benefited from this kind of collective care without my fully understanding its origins or necessity. But I also know what I'm seeing: families from different backgrounds, speaking different languages, playing different music, all operating under the same fundamental understanding about how children should be cared for. Not just by their parents, but by the community around them.
Mother's Beach was developed in 1957 and officially dedicated in 1965—old but revolutionary, just like motherhood itself. What strikes me now is how this public space has become a place where that revolutionary spirit can flourish. Where the paleta vendors aren't just selling treats but participating in the community's care system. Where the lifeguards aren't just watching for drowning but engaging with children as individuals worthy of respect and attention.
This is what a sanctuary looks like—not just the calm water and contained space, but the shared agreement that transforms a public beach into something that feels like the neighborhoods some of us grew up in as children and others of us are searching for as mothers ourselves now. It's community-based parenting happening in real time, families creating the support systems they need by showing up for each other's children. It's what All Moms strives to be, too.
The other day, my own mom asked what people found most valuable about All Moms. I immediately answered: "The community. And not feeling like they're alone." My mom nodded and said, "I guess we were just lucky in Buffalo."
Lucky. The word stuck with me because it captures something important about what I'm witnessing at Mother's Beach. What my mom experienced in Elmwood Village, what families are creating here at this beach, what we're trying to build through All Moms—it shouldn't have to be luck. It should be how communities work.
In our increasingly isolated world, places like Mother's Beach become even more precious. They're proof that the village we talk about isn't just nostalgic wishful thinking—it's something we can create when we recognize that caring for children is work that belongs to all of us. When we understand that the safety and joy of one child is connected to the safety and joy of every child.
Every time we visit, I'm reminded that some of the most radical acts happen in the most ordinary places. Families speaking multiple languages, sharing the same shade structures. A lifeguard treating every child as if they matter. Parents who don't know each other keeping an eye on each other's kids. Music and food and laughter creating a soundtrack for the kind of community care that some call revolutionary because it has to be.
Because in a world that often leaves parents feeling like they're doing it all alone, any place that says "we're all in this together" isn't just nice—it's necessary. It's the difference between surviving parenthood and thriving in it. It's the revolution, one beach day at a time.
