i have a new favorite place.

This year, Christmas looked a little different.

No tree in the living room. No shopping for the perfect gift. No frantic wrapping at midnight.

Instead, it looked like lava rock and long drives, bare feet and salty hair, a rented Airbnb on the Big Island of Hawaiʻi, and a family choosing presence over presents.

The kids decided it. Not me.“This year,” they said, “let’s do something together instead.”

So we did.

We packed up and flew across an ocean to share space, meals, laughter, and more windshield time than anyone expected.

But there was also a lot of exploring.

Waterfalls. Volcano National Park (a volcano that decided to errupt while we were there!) Tiny roadside stands. Moments that didn’t make it into photos because we were too busy being in them. And somehow, in the middle of all that movement, the most meaningful moments were the still ones.

My favorite parts of the trip weren’t the dramatic views (though Hawaiʻi does not hold back). They were the mornings and evenings back at the Airbnb—everyone together, sharing meals, playing games. Laughing over whatever they were watching on their phones. Watching my kids interact with one another in that effortless way that only siblings can. I’ve told them since they were little that they are best friends.

That truth looks different now. They live far apart. They have full lives, partners, responsibilities. But trips like this remind them—and me—that distance doesn’t loosen what’s been woven deep. Their hearts know each other. They know how to fall back into rhythm. They will always be family.

And then—because life loves symbolism when you least expect it—Aspen got married on the island. Under a banyan tree.

If you’ve never stood beneath one, it’s hard to explain. A banyan doesn’t grow like most trees. Its branches stretch outward, and when they get heavy, they send roots down into the ground. Those roots thicken, become trunks themselves, and eventually support the entire tree. One tree. Many trunks. Rooted, expanding, held. Some banyan trees live for hundreds of years. They survive storms because they don’t rely on a single support system. They grow wide. They adapt. They make room.

Standing there, watching my son marry the love of his life beneath that tree, I couldn’t imagine a better metaphor for long-lasting love.

Marriage isn’t just about growing upward—it’s about growing outward. About knowing when to reach, when to root, when to let love take shape in unexpected ways so it can last.

It felt sacred. Timeless. Exactly right.

And if I’m honest— and honesty is kind of my thing—this trip did something deep in my mom heart. There’s a particular ache and awe that comes with watching your kids become adults. With seeing them choose each other. With witnessing who they are when you’re no longer the center of their world—but still very much part of it. There were moments I stood back quietly and thought, This is it. This is what all those growing years were for.

This trip mattered to me in a way I’ll probably still be unpacking for a while. It reminded me that family doesn’t have to look one way to be strong. That traditions can be rewritten. That love—when it’s rooted well—travels beautifully. And gosh… I love these kids.

If you’re reading this during a season when family feels complicated, or traditions feel heavy, or your heart is craving something simpler and truer—let this be your permission slip.

You’re allowed to choose togetherness.You’re allowed to grow wide.You’re allowed to root love in new soil.

Sometimes, the best gifts don’t fit under a tree. Sometimes, they are the tree.

And sometimes, they look like a house full of people you love, in a place you never imagined, realizing your heart is bigger than you thought.

and hey.. i love you.

~k