Punta Cana: Apparently I Live Here Now

Some places look beautiful in photographs.
And then there are places that make you walk around constantly saying, “LOOK AT THAT.”

Punta Cana is definitely the second kind.
We came to the Dominican Republic expecting turquoise water, palm trees, tropical weather, great food, and a few days away together. What I did not expect was how much I would notice.

The plants. The flowers. The animals. The colors. The food.
The way the light comes through the leaves. The palm trees bending in the wind.
And maybe most importantly, how nice it would feel to have uninterrupted time with my husband.

No complicated itinerary. No need to race from one attraction to another. Just me and mi amor in a ridiculously beautiful place, wandering around, eating things, drinking things, laughing, exploring, and occasionally stopping because I have discovered another plant that apparently requires an entire photoshoot.

Sorry, babe. You married the woman taking seventeen pictures of a leaf.

Me, Mi Amor, and the Caribbean

One of my favorite parts of this trip has simply been getting to spend time with Keenan. Not parent mode. Not household mode. Not coordinating seventeen different things at once. Just us. There is something really special about getting away together and remembering how much fun it is to simply exist beside the person you chose.

Sitting by the pool. Having dinner. Walking around the resort. Trying different foods. Talking about absolutely nothing important. Having a drink while staring at a view that looks suspiciously like somebody Photoshopped reality. Those are the moments I think I will remember most.

Of course, we are still completely ourselves. I am wandering around photographing tropical foliage and searching the trees for bats. Keenan is eating baby squid.

So, you know.
Romance.

Everything Here Is Alive

One of my favorite things about Punta Cana has been the plants. And I mean ALL OF THEM. The landscaping here is absolutely ridiculous. Enormous tropical leaves, palms, flowers, vines, crotons exploding in red, orange, yellow, pink, and green, and plants that look like someone handed Mother Nature a box of markers and told her there were no rules.

Some leaves are glossy and enormous. Some curl around themselves as they grow. Some look painted. Some look prehistoric. Some look suspiciously like they should start talking. And naturally, I have photographed all of them.

At some point my vacation camera roll stopped looking like a vacation album and started looking like field research conducted by an extremely enthusiastic amateur botanist. Nobody hired me. I simply appointed myself.

These Crotons Are SHOW-OFFS

The crotons here deserve special recognition.

They are spectacular.

Some leaves are striped in yellow and green. Others are streaked with orange, red, pink, and gold. One leaf can look completely different from the leaf growing directly beside it.

Some of them practically glow when the sunlight hits them.

They look painted. They look like stained glass. They look like tropical Lisa Frank foliage. Obviously, I am obsessed. Glossy green shrubs also have new leaves still rolled into tiny tubes, waiting to open. Enormous leaves have perfectly organized veins. Plants with deep red stems and copper-colored foliage. Every few feet there is another plant making me stop and say, “WHAT IS THAT?”

Keenan has accepted his fate. Vacationing with me apparently involves waiting patiently while I photograph shrubbery

Even Paradise Has Brown Leaves

Something else caught my attention. Not every plant here looks perfect. Some leaves are brown. Some are sun-scorched. Some plants are dropping older growth. Some look absolutely spectacular at the top while the bottom looks like it has been through battle. And the garden is still breathtaking. Maybe even more so because of it. Tropical does not mean untouched.

Paradise does not mean nothing gets damaged. These plants get blasted by Caribbean sunshine, soaked by rain, whipped by wind, drenched in humidity, and battered by tropical storms. And they keep growing. Which brings me back to the palm trees.

The Palm Trees Mean Something Different to Me Now

I have been thinking about getting a palm tree tattoo.
After being surrounded by them here, I know exactly why.

Palm trees do not survive storms because they refuse to move. They survive because they bend. The wind can beat the hell out of them. Their leaves can shred. Their trunks can bow until it seems impossible that they will stand upright again. But when the storm clears, they turn toward the sun. And they rise. That feels familiar. Life has bent me in directions I never expected. I’ve faced storms I never would have chosen. Marks remain from what I have survived. But I am still here.

Still growing. Still reaching. Still finding the sun. So yes. I think a palm tree belongs on me. Not because my life has been untouched by storms. Because I learned how to bend without letting the storm decide where I stay.

The View Is Honestly Ridiculous

There are moments here when I look around and think, This cannot possibly be my actual life.

I am sitting beside an infinity pool. Palm trees sway beyond it. The Caribbean is peeking through in the distance. The sky is violently blue. There is a cold tropical drink in my hand. My husband is beside me. And we have nowhere else we need to be. That last part might be the luxury I appreciate most. We can stay. Order another drink. Talk. Swim. Walk around. Go eat something. Or do absolutely nothing. There is no prize for squeezing the maximum number of activities into a vacation. Sometimes the whole point is looking at the person beside you and saying, “Want to stay here a little longer?” And then actually being able to.

We Need to Discuss the Food

The food deserves its own chapter because apparently vacation Meig is unwilling to let anyone touch a plate until I photograph it.

I have eaten extremely well here. My braised beef rib was rich, tender, and exactly the kind of meal that temporarily ends conversation because your brain needs a moment to process what just happened.

Keenan has been the seafood adventurer. The baby squid was his. The salmon was his. Seafood curry? His!

I love seeing the completely different things we choose and getting to experience meals together. We’ve had gorgeous plated dinners, charcuterie, desserts, seafood, beautiful sauces, tiny garnishes, and dishes that look like somebody arranged every component with tweezers. At one point we essentially had what I can only describe as a luxury Lunchable. I fully support this category of cuisine. Everything feels intentional. Even when I have absolutely no idea what something is, it is pretty.

Cold Drink. Palm Trees. Husband. I’m Good.

There is something delightfully absurd about sitting beside a pool with a tropical drink while palm trees sway behind it. It is exactly the kind of stereotypical vacation moment that you think cannot possibly feel as good as advertised. It does. Especially when you get to share it with your person.

One of my favorite things about traveling together is collecting tiny memories that probably mean nothing to anyone else. The weird thing we ate. The plant I made him stop and look at. Something ridiculous one of us said at dinner. A drink we liked. A place where we sat longer than we intended. A tiny lizard that I was far more excited about than any reasonable adult should have been.

Those little moments become the trip.

Of Course I Found the Tiny Creatures

Anyone who knows me knows there was absolutely no chance I’d come to a tropical island and only pay attention to the pool. I am looking under leaves. I am looking at trees. I am watching the ground. I am inspecting flowers. Basically, if something is tiny, weird, alive, or has more legs than the average tourist, I would like to see it immediately. I have already found tiny lizards darting through the landscaping, and I remain completely delighted every single time.

I am also still searching for bats. Obviously. Everyone else can have the swim-up bar. Give me a tiny nocturnal mammal hanging upside down from a tree, and I will consider this vacation complete.

Punta Cana at Night Is Gorgeous

The resort completely changes after dark. The bright tropical colors disappear into shadows. The palms become silhouettes. Lights glow between the trees. The pools reflect everything. And suddenly the place feels entirely different from the bright tropical paradise we walked through that morning. It becomes quieter. Softer. A little mysterious.

Which naturally makes me think:
Excellent. Bat time.

Still looking. I have not given up.

Tiny Lizards, Giant Chess, Plants, Food and Us

One of my favorite things about this trip has been how much joy I am getting from completely ordinary moments. A tiny lizard. A strange flower. An enormous chess set. A weird leaf. A palm tree moving in the wind. A beautiful plate of food. A cold drink. A conversation with my husband. Walking somewhere without particularly caring where we end up. Nothing earth-shattering. Just little pieces of a life being lived somewhere beautiful.

I think adulthood sometimes teaches us to stop paying attention unless something has a purpose. But wandering around Punta Cana with mi amor has reminded me how much I genuinely love noticing things. And how much I love having someone beside me while I notice them.

Maybe That Is What I Will Remember Most

Punta Cana is beautiful. Obviously. The water is ridiculous. The plants are incredible. The food has been fantastic. The palm trees have somehow become philosophical. My camera roll is approximately 40 percent vacation photos and 60 percent botanical evidence. But when I think about what I will actually remember years from now, I do not think it will be one particular dinner or flower or swimming pool.

I think I will remember us here.

Me and Keenan. Exploring somewhere new together. Laughing. Eating. Talking. Sitting in the sunshine. Me stopping every six feet because I found another plant. Him inevitably waiting for me. The little things that happen when there is finally enough time to simply enjoy being together. Because the Caribbean is beautiful. But experiencing it beside someone you love? That is the part you cannot photograph. Although, knowing me, I am certainly going to try.

Punta Cana, you have my heart. Now please produce a bat before I leave. I have been extremely patient.

See you guys for part 2, where we learn about this amazing place together.

Meig

8PM

8pm is also when I start my child’s bedtime routine.

While headlines refresh and the world holds its breath, I will be standing next to a little stool in our bathroom, helping tiny hands squeeze toothpaste onto a brush. I will remind her to spit, not swallow. I will wipe her face with a warm washcloth and kiss her warm, rosy, damp cheeks. I will tighten the clump of messy curls on top of her head.

She will pick out a book. Probably one we’ve already read a hundred times. She will interrupt me halfway through to ask questions that have nothing to do with the story. I will answer anyway.

We will sing a song while I help her into her jammies. The same one, every night. I will tuck her in just like a big in a rug. I will whisper, “I love you to the moon and back.”

And tonight, I will hold on a little tighter during our group hug.

Because in the back of my mind, a quiet question will be echoing: Is my country bombing Iran right now?

Night is already falling there.

Somewhere across the world, another parent is beginning their own bedtime routine.

They are brushing teeth. They are smoothing blankets. They are telling stories in a language I don’t understand but a rhythm I would recognize instantly.

They are loving their child in the exact same way I love mine.

And what are they wondering?

Are they listening for sirens? Are they watching the sky? Are they trying to sound calm when they are anything but? Are they holding on just a little tighter, too?

The symmetry of our hearts and the dissonance of our circumstances is staggering.

Because motherhood does not change across borders. Love does not need translation. Bedtime rituals do not belong to one country or another. They belong to all of us.

And yet, the safety wrapped around those rituals can be so uneven, so fragile, so dependent on decisions made far away from the quiet moments where children rest their heads on their parents’ shoulders.

Tonight, at 8pm, I will do what mothers have always done. I will create a small pocket of peace inside my home.

I will choose softness. I will choose presence. I will choose love.

But I will not pretend the world outside does not exist.

I will feel the weight of it. I will carry the awareness that while I am turning off a nightlight, somewhere else a parent may be bracing for something unimaginable.

And still, I will whisper the same words:

I love you. I love you. I love you.

Because if there is anything that connects us across oceans, across fear, across uncertainty, it is this:

We are all just trying to tuck our children in safely at night.

And tonight, that feels both heartbreakingly simple and impossibly profound.

Hug your babies tight. Hug your loved ones right. 

Shit is fucked up, but we’re all gonna be okay. I hope. 

– Meig

Anniversaries make me sappy.

Eleven years of marriage.
Sixteen years of loving him.

Sometimes I sit in the quiet of our home, usually after bedtime when the world finally slows, and I try to wrap my mind around that number. Sixteen years. A whole lifetime of memories, of growth, of becoming who we are together.

We started with so little. Just two people figuring out life side by side in our very first apartment. Back then, love looked like late night conversations, shared dreams, and the kind of laughter that only comes when everything is still new and full of possibility.

And the beach is where it all took root.

There is something about the ocean that feels like us. Wild and steady at the same time. That is where our story really began, sun on our skin, salt in the air, falling into something deeper than we even understood yet. I still remember that cruise to Honduras, Costa Maya, and Belize, the moment it all shifted for me. Somewhere between the waves and the quiet moments together, I realized I was not just in love.

I was home.

Since then, we have built a life piece by piece. Two homes after that first apartment. A new chapter here in Austin, where everything feels a little lighter and a little friendlier, like we landed exactly where we were meant to be.

But if I am honest, the most defining part of our story was not where we lived.

It was what we waited for.

Twelve long, quiet years.

Years that tested us in ways no one really sees from the outside. Years filled with hope, heartbreak, patience, and an unshakable commitment to each other. There were moments it felt impossibly heavy, but we never let go. Not of each other. Not of the life we believed we were meant to have.

And then, her.
Our daughter.

Three and a half years ago, everything changed in the most beautiful way. The silence we carried for so long was replaced with laughter, tiny footsteps, and the sweetest little voice calling us Momma and Daddy.

Watching him become a father has been my favorite chapter of ours.

The way he loves her. The way she looks at him. The patience, the playfulness, the quiet strength he brings into our family. It is everything I ever dreamed of and more. There is something so sacred about seeing the person you have loved for over a decade step into a role that feels like it was always meant for them.

We did not just build a life.
We built this life.

One filled with resilience. With deep roots. With a kind of love that has been tested and proven again and again. A love that grew up, weathered storms, waited through silence, and still chose each other every single time.

Eleven years married.
Sixteen years together.

And somehow, it still feels like we are just getting started.

I would choose him in every lifetime.
Always.

-Meig

The Weight of Enough

There’s a quiet tug of war that lives in my chest every single day.

When I sit on the floor and play with her, really play, the kind where I let the dishes pile up and the laundry stay unfolded, I feel it creeping in. You should be cleaning. You’re falling behind.

And when I finally stand up, push through the exhaustion, and start picking up the house, there it is again. You should be with her. These moments are slipping away.

It feels like no matter where I stand, I am standing in the wrong place.

Did I make her smile enough today?
Did I give enough hugs, enough kisses?
Did she feel how deeply, wildly, endlessly loved she is?
Did I do enough?

Mom guilt does not whisper. It hums. Constant and relentless. Especially when your body already feels like it is fighting its own quiet battle every single day.

Because chronic illness does not clock out.
There is no off switch.
No pause button.

Every ounce of energy becomes a decision.

Do I spend it on the dishes or on her laughter?

Do I push through the fatigue to be present or do I rest so I can make it through bedtime?

And somehow, no matter what I choose, it feels like I am failing something.

Tonight I sat on her floor, pulling her pajamas over tired little legs, soaking in her bedtime cuddles. My body felt heavy, completely emptied of everything I had to give.

And still the thoughts came.

Why did I get so frustrated today?
Why will she not just poop in the potty already?
Why did I lose my patience over something so small?

It is in those quiet, end of the day moments that the guilt hits the hardest.

Because I want to be everything for her.
The patient mom. The fun mom. The calm mom. The always present, never tired, endlessly gentle mom.

But I am not.

I am human.
I am tired.
I am doing this while carrying more than most people can see.

And as I sat there, stuck on the floor for just a moment longer than I wanted, because getting up felt like climbing a mountain, I looked at her.

And she looked at me like I was her whole world.

Not a cleaner house.
Not a perfectly patient mom.
Not someone who got everything right.

Just me.

Her momma.

And in that moment, I was reminded of something I so easily forget.

I am not the perfect mom.
But I am her mom.

The one she runs to.
The one she laughs with.
The one she wants at the end of the day.

Even on the days I feel stretched too thin,
even on the days I lose patience,
even on the days I question everything,

I am still exactly who she needs.

And maybe, just maybe,
that is enough.

Love y’all. Go hug your babies. You’re enough. I promise.

-Meig