How We Go to the Beach (Without Losing Ourselves)

Every summer, we make our way to the beach. Sometimes it’s the quiet, calm waters of Cape Charles, Virginia—shallow, still, no crowds. Other times it’s the bustling waves of the North Carolina coast—busy, loud, full of sand and sun and unpredictability.

Y’all, I love the beach. I really love the beach. I grew up spending long, slow weeks there. Some of my best childhood memories happened barefoot in the sand — building drip castles, wallowing in tide pools, letting the waves crash into my thighs, endlessly digging for sand crabs. I could stim there. I could breathe there. It was peace.

So it’s not surprising that part of me wants to recreate that for my kids. There’s a fantasy at play — the hope that I’ll watch them love what I loved, that we’ll build matching memories, that I’ll get to feel it all again in my body. It’s tender and real and not inherently wrong. But if I’m not careful, I find myself slipping into the trap of believing that if I just pack the right snacks, find the right swimsuit, bring enough sand toys, and orchestrate it all just right… I’ll finally get to live the fantasy.

Except… not everybody in my family loves the beach as much as I do.

And it’s taken me years to let that truly be true.

When Vacations Hurt

Sometimes the heartbreak of family outings isn’t about the outing at all. It’s about something deeper. Something older.

When I imagine a beach day, I’m not just thinking about sand and sunscreen. I’m remembering my own childhood—hours happily digging holes and building castles, and some part of me is always trying to recreate that. To pass it on. To relive it. To make it even better.

That longing is beautiful. And it’s human.

But it can also make it really painful when my kids don’t want the same thing. When they say, “No, I don’t want to.” When they melt down or opt out. When they don’t love what I loved.

If you feel devastated when your kid refuses to participate in some sacred family ritual, it might not be about the event itself. It might be about your younger self—longing for joy, longing for ease, longing for your parents to notice you or spend time with you. 

When our kids are miserable on vacation, or when they say they don’t want to play on the beach and instead choose to watch Youtube on their bunk bed, it often feels like a rejection—not just of the beach, but of me. Of my offering. Of my inner child, who is quietly hoping someone will dig beside her and find it magical.

There’s often a blurring, in these moments, between what I want for them and what I want for me. I might be trying to give them something I never had. Or trying to redeem a memory that hurt. Or simply wanting them to love what I loved. And when they don’t, it can feel like I’ve failed. Like I got it wrong.

And of course! All of that makes so much sense. We can also hold, though, that those dreams and desires are all about us, not our kids. 

Here’s the truth I come back to again and again: my kids aren’t here to reenact my childhood. They’re not here to play out a fantasy version of what I wish had happened. They’re here to be themselves. Whole, complicated, beautiful selves—with their own bodies, their own boundaries, their own sensory needs and preferences.

And I get to love them for who they are. Even when that means leaving the beach after 20 minutes. Even when it means staying in the car with a meltdown instead of walking on the sand. Even when it means not going at all.

That’s the real work of healing. Of breaking cycles. Of parenting with tenderness and truth.

It’s not easy. But it’s real. And in the long run, it’s more beautiful than any perfectly recreated childhood memory could ever be.

Now, let’s talk about the beach.

The Sand Struggle is Real

Sand is one of the hardest parts of the beach for our family. Two of my kids have incredibly sensitive skin, and once sand gets into their swimsuits—or worse, under their swimsuits—it’s game over. We’ve gone through many iterations of suits to find ones that are skin-tight enough to keep sand out of vulnerable crevices and still feel good on their bodies.

Here’s what helps:

• Skin-tight suits that prevent sand from sneaking in
• Baby powder to brush off stuck-on grains
• Large, shakeable towels that sand doesn’t cling to
• Backup swimsuits, in case one gets too sandy to continue
• Knowledge of where public showers are, so we can rinse off when needed
  
  

Sometimes, just getting clean and dry becomes the whole goal. And that’s okay.

Sunscreen & Autonomy

Sunscreen, for us, is a sensory and demand storm. Being touched, especially by someone else, is often unbearable. But so is the feeling of lotion on their hands. And they can’t always manage spray bottles independently. So we’ve found a workaround: sunscreen bars that rub on like deodorant. They don’t drip. They don’t require hand contact. And some are wide enough to cover lots of skin at once.

We also rely heavily on sun-protective clothing—long-sleeved swim shirts, hooded rash guards, and hats (when tolerated)—so we can reduce the need for reapplication. But when it’s time to reapply, we always aim for autonomy, gentleness, and options.

Food: Not On the Sand

Eating on the beach? A disaster waiting to happen. Sandy hands, blowing wind, wobbly stomachs—it’s just not worth it. We’ve learned not to expect real eating on the beach at all. Which means that hours and hours on the beach at midday isn’t doable. It means “packing a picnic at the beach” isn’t doable. It means expecting my kids to play while hungry or to notice their bodily hunger cues when there’s so much other sensory stimulation happening, is just not doable.

Instead, we:

• Plan for shorter beach sessions
• Eat before and after, in the car, back at the house, or at a quiet restaurant
• Keep snacks separate from the sand zone
• Drop any assumptions about “healthy” or “unhealthy” food and just eat for sustenance

Trying to eat while actively managing sensory overload just doesn’t work for our family. And now that we know that, we don’t expect it or force it.

No Competition, Please

The beach seems to inspire competitive play: who can build the tallest castle, who can go furthest into the water, who can win at paddleball. But for years, not only could my kids not participate in competitive games—they couldn’t even witness them. Watching someone else compete could cause a full nervous system shutdown.

So we play collaboratively, or not at all. 

Our best game? Kids vs. Grown-up. Who can build the biggest drip castle? All the kids versus me. (And sooooomehow, I always lose. Winky face.)

The Myth of the Long Beach Day

When I was a kid, I could play for hours by myself in the sand. Digging. Dripping. Drifting with the waves. And somewhere deep in me, I still crave that. I want to pass it down. I want to relive it. I want to sit in peace while my kids frolic, lost in the magic of the sea.

But that’s not how it goes.

Most days, we’re on the beach for 60–90 minutes, max. Then we head back to rest, regulate, regroup. And I used to feel so disappointed. Why can’t we just stay? Why can’t they enjoy it like I did?

That feeling—of loss, jealousy, unmet longing—was important to name. Because underneath it was the child inside me, aching for something familiar and lovely. I had to stop expecting my kids to give that to me. I had to stop hoping I’d sneak it in during chaos. Instead, I started naming my need and asking for help. Sometimes it worked, and I got a peaceful hour to myself. Sometimes I didn’t. But at least I was honest.

What We Bring to the Beach (Our Real Packing List)

Swimwear

• Skin-tight suits
• Backup suits
• Long-sleeve rash guards
• Hooded shirts or hats (when tolerated)

Sunscreen Solutions

• Wide stick/bar sunscreen
• Spray or mineral lotion if preferred
• Wet wipes for hands
• Face stick for reapplication
• A stop watch or phone timer for regular reminders to reapply

Sand & Sensory Supplies

• Baby powder
• Shakeable towels
• Foldable mat or blanket
• Comfy, no blister water shoes
• Public shower location noted (if present)

Food & Drink Strategy

• Bring safe foods from home if they might be hard to access
• Research what fast food or restaurant options you will have access to
• Separate snacks in the car or at home base
• Low-pressure meal plans off the beach
• Food is food; the goal is nobody hangry, nobody melting down.

Sensory Tools

• Noise-canceling headphones or ear buds
• Sand-friendly fidgets
• Tent or umbrella for shade
• Lots of ice cold water
• A scripted exit plan
• Tablets, even on the beach

Parent Needs

• A plan for your own peace
• An ally adult (if possible)

Clear expectations: It might be short. It might be hard. That’s okay.

The Pain of Comparison

At the beach, the temptation to compare can be crushing. I sit and watch as kids run independently into the waves, squealing with joy. Parents chat in chairs, relaxed and sun-dappled. Peaceful hours slip by while parents nap or read, and kids play together unsupervised. It looks so dreamy, and it’s hard not to feel jealous and resentful. For us, the beach is constant hustle and coregulation and triggers galore. It’s so easy to believe that we’re doing something wrong. That if my kids were just a little more regulated, a little more grateful, I could be that mom in the chair. That if I were better, this would be easier.

But I’ve learned: It’s hard because it’s hard. Not because I’m doing it wrong. And that our joy is not in being the same as everyone else. The joy is being us. Embracing the truth of who we are with radical, joyful acceptance.

I’ve watched one of my kids paddle out in a canoe, panic, and accept support from someone who wasn’t me, and return, safe and calm. I’ve seen my kids self-advocate with confidence, explaining their sensory needs to cousins and grown-ups. I’ve heard them say things like “my brain doesn’t like that,” without shame.

These are each little miracles – challenges and opportunities for growth brought on by our beach trips. They’re growing in their own powerful, brave ways.

The Aftermath Is Real

After a beach trip, we crash. Every time. Even if it went well. Even if there were no huge meltdowns or breakdowns. Our bodies and brains still need to recalibrate.

So we plan for decompression time. Ideally, no activities or expectations or camps or babysitters or visitors. No packed schedules or being places at certain times. Just space to recover. And when we do have expectations that involve other people, we let the other adults in our lives know: expect less for a while. Or better put, expect more dysregulation. They’re tired. We’re tired. And that’s okay.

The Real Win

This isn’t about recreating my childhood. It’s about being present for their childhood—and mine, too. It’s about parenting the same way on vacation that I do at home. Still low demand. Still offering opt-outs. Still saying “you don’t have to.”

It’s offering safe foods when everyone else is doing hot dogs on the grill. It’s staying back when one kid opts out, and doing it without resentment. It’s being us, wherever we are.

And the more we do it, the more right it feels. Because it is who we are.

Our actual bodies.

This actual season.

This actual beach.

And it turns out, that’s a kind of magic too.