On Creating Joy When the World Feels Heavy

7/31/2025 11:00 am

I have a photo from our beach trip two years ago that perfectly captures how I used to vacation. In it, my kids are building a sandcastle system surrounded by a moat, completely absorbed in their work. I'm standing behind them, phone raised, trying to get the perfect angle. What the photo doesn't show is that I never actually helped build that castle. I was too busy documenting the process to participate in it.

 

That's how every family trip went. Me at the edge of the ocean, phone in hand, never fully getting in because I might miss a good shot. Constantly scanning for photo opportunities, asking my husband to grab his phone if he sees something cute. Feeling like it was my obligation to capture them with their grandparents, to create evidence that we'd taken this amazing trip.

 

This summer was different. I didn't take a single photo on our three-week family vacation. Not one.

 

This feels significant in a way that has nothing to do with Instagram or memory-keeping. It feels significant because getting photos and documenting everything we did was always at the back of my mind on previous trips. It took up so much brain space—the constant mental management of capturing moments, reminding my husband to take pictures of me so I'd have "proof of mom" evidence that I was there and engaged.

 

But this time, I was just... there. Having long conversations with my kids about Pokémon and the books we'd been reading. Listening to them theorize about how sea glass gets smooth and why some driftwood has holes in it. Watching them discover that Seal Beach waves are surprisingly strong and that shaved ice from Bogart's tastes better when you're already sticky from salt water.

 

The world has felt impossibly heavy lately. Every morning brought news about people being detained and deported without proof, the ongoing loss of life in Gaza, updates on policies that felt like they were targeting my own child - my recently diagnosed autistic seven-year-old, whose worth was being questioned by those in power, news that reminded me their childhood was happening against a backdrop I couldn't have imagined. I'd been walking around with this anxiety humming in the background - the kind that makes you forget to breathe deeply, that makes everything feel urgent and overwhelming.

 

And yet here I was, sitting on a beach, watching my children be children, and for the first time in weeks, that hum went quiet.

 

Summer adds its own weight to mothering in difficult times. Kids are home, routines are disrupted, and there's this pressure to make every day meaningful while you're also trying to process everything happening in the world. The constant "what are we doing today?" while also carrying the heaviness of current events.

 

This is the impossible balance of motherhood in difficult times: how do you teach your kids to care about what's happening in the world while not overwhelming them with adult-sized worry? How do you process your own fears about the future while still creating joy in the present? How do you mother through chaos without letting the chaos become the story of their childhood?

 

I don't have answers. But I'm learning that sometimes the most radical thing you can do when everything feels heavy is to focus intensely on what's right in front of you. Not to document it or optimize it or turn it into content, but to actually live inside the moments.

 

I'm learning to start with what I can control. I can't fix the news cycle, but I can decide that dinner tonight will be pancakes because pancakes feel celebratory. I can't solve global problems, but I can let my kids stay up late to watch the sunset or for a nighttime swim. I'm realizing these aren't solutions to the world's problems - they're acts of resistance against letting those problems swallow our family's joy.

 

I'm trying to help them engage appropriately with the world. I've realized this doesn't mean lying to them about reality or pretending hard things don't exist. I'm learning it means teaching them that caring about others is part of being human, while helping them understand their role in making things better.

 

We were driving back from my cousin's wedding in San Marcos to my parents' place in Seal Beach, and our route took us past several areas where No Kings protesters had gathered. My husband, my aunt, and I talked about it briefly in the car, but my kids didn’t say anything at the time.

 

Later that day, as we were settling back in at my parents' house, my older son looked up from the Dog Man-style Flip-o-Rama he was creating. "Remember when we saw those people holding signs? What were they doing?"

 

Here we go, I thought. My husband and I try to be pretty open about these things, so I explained it the best way I knew how. "There are things happening that they think are wrong, and it's important to defend people who can't defend themselves, help people who don't have as much as you, and stand up for what you believe in."

 

I could see the wheels turning in his head as he nodded thoughtfully, processing in that way kids do, and then went back to his creation. I didn’t second-guess my answer - it felt right. But I was already tired thinking about how we'd probably have this same conversation again in a few months, maybe with slightly different words. The long game of parenting requires these repeated conversations, each one hopefully reinforcing the last, even when you're not sure how much is sticking. Sometimes I have to force myself to engage fully as if this will be the conversation that makes everything click, knowing full well it's just one of many we'll need to have.

 

But this trip wasn't all heavy conversations and processing. At Disneyland—the place where documenting magic feels mandatory—I watched my kids experience pure joy without interruption. No stopping them mid-run to pose in front of Sleeping Beauty's Castle. No "Wait, let me get a picture" as they spotted Donald Duck or tried on their new Mickey ears. Just their genuine excitement, their actual faces during their first time on certain rides and their unfiltered delight. They were less frustrated with me because I wasn't constantly pulling them out of moments to capture them. And I got to witness something better than any photo—the real, unperformed, uninterrupted joy of childhood.

 

Our days were mostly lazy. Not rushed. When you're not constantly managing schedules and documentation, you can actually sink into moments instead of rushing through them. We got to just enjoy each other's company—and my parents', who we stayed with.

 

The slower pace also created space for the conversations that matter. Alongside discussions about Pokémon and sea glass formation, we talked about what it means to be kind to people who are different from us, why some families don't have enough money, and how we can help our neighbors. Without my usual preoccupation with capturing moments, these deeper talks just emerged.

 

This isn't to say we didn't have meltdowns and difficult moments. It's true what they say: vacation as a parent is just parenting in a different location. But without the constant background anxiety of capturing everything, I had more mental space to actually engage with those moments too—including the ones where my kids needed to process big feelings about unfair things in the world.

 

We stumbled into creating pockets of normal. I'm realizing kids need routine and predictability, especially when the adult world feels chaotic. During our three weeks in Seal Beach, this looked like morning walks through the sleepy surf town with coffee from Javatini, and evenings on the patio with dinner and family. It doesn't have to be elaborate or perfect—it just has to be something they can count on when everything else feels uncertain.

 

I'm learning to let them see me take care of myself. When I'm overwhelmed by current events, I tell my kids I need a few minutes to take some deep breaths. When I'm sad about something happening in the world, I let them see that emotion without making it their responsibility to fix it. I want them to learn that adults have feelings too, and that all emotions—theirs and mine—are okay to have. That it's normal to feel upset about unfair things, and that taking care of yourself isn't selfish—it's necessary for being able to care for others.

 

I'm trying to focus on what we're building, not just what we're fighting. Yes, there are things worth fighting against in this world, and I want my kids to know that too. But I'm learning they're absorbing how to be caring, engaged humans primarily by watching how I treat them and how I move through daily life. Am I building kindness? Curiosity? The courage to stand up for others? The ability to find joy even when working for change? I'm realizing these aren't separate from raising socially conscious kids—they're the foundation of it.

 

I'm reminding myself that being present is enough. I don't have to create magical moments or perfect memories. I don't have to have all the answers or fix everything that's broken. My children need me to show up - not as the perfect mother, but as myself. They need to see that adults can be worried about the world and still make silly faces during dinner. They need to know that feeling heavy doesn't mean you can't also feel love.

 

I was sitting in the sand with my four-year-old, helping him dig, and I realized this was exactly what being present looked like. Not watching through a phone screen, not distracted by trying to capture the moment - just the two of us working together on whatever he was building, sharing his focus.

 

That's what I want to remember about that day. Not what it looked like, but how it felt. How present we all were. How the world's heaviness lifted, just for a moment, because we were fully inside our own small pocket of joy.

 

I can't control the news cycle or fix the world's problems or guarantee my children a future without hardship. But I can give them a childhood where they feel seen and loved and valued. I can show them that even when things are hard, there's still room for laughter and wonder and connection.

 

The world might be heavy, but that doesn't mean our children have to carry that weight. I'm learning that my job isn't to shield them from reality forever, but to help them grow strong enough to handle whatever comes. And that strength doesn't come from perfect moments or documented memories.

 

It comes from being fully loved, exactly as they are, right where we are.

 

Even when - especially when - everything else feels uncertain.