Touch Sand
My favorite summer stories aren’t written in postcards. They’re told in the tan lines under my jewelry and the shells in my pockets.
Three days into a beach trip and I start forgetting what social media even is. My skin is shellacked with a layer of salt and SPF. My hair’s developing a crunchy, curly volume that no $75 “beach wave” spray could ever hope to replicate.
Usually, seeing my phone at 14% battery life would give me a minor heart attack. Out here? No such thing as anxiety. The charger hole in my phone is filled with sand anyway. It’s fine. I’m not “on the grid.” I’m just... on the beach.
I’ve started picking things up. My pockets (the ones in the denim shorts I’ve worn three days in a row—don’t judge me) are filled with the ocean’s leftovers: a smooth pebble from the shoreline, a bleached stem of coral that looks like a tiny vase, a shell with a hole through its center that’s practically begging for a chain.
Being at the beach, with a pocket full of shells, I keep thinking about the difference between consumption and collection.
Every time I open an app, I’m being told that I am one specific moisturizer, one specific bag, or one specific pair of (admittedly very cute) shoes away from being the “ideal” version of myself.
But I don’t want to be anybody other than myself. A little wild, a little free, a little unapologetic about the mess of sand and wet towels in my car. Maybe that’s why I’m so drawn to the sea. It doesn’t ask you to be anyone else. It just leaves things out, like: “Here. This is for you. Take it if you want it.”
Don’t mind if I do.
Nature is a pretty amazing designer. The original luxury brand, if you will. It doesn’t have a logo or a marketing department, yet it produces pieces I love just as much as the ones I find in my favorite shops.
So I’ve started wearing them together—the things I found and the things I saved for. A raw, jagged shell hanging next to a polished 14k gold chain. A gift from the earth and a gift to myself.
A lot of summer is about taking things off. No makeup, because why bother? Less clothing. Fewer hours of sleep—shout out, humidity and late-night porch conversations. Somehow, though, everything feels better. The things I choose to put on feel more intentional.
Because when you strip away everything else, what’s left is just you. And your tan lines. And the few things you never take off.
By the end of a week at the beach, I'm not who I was when I arrived. There’s sun in my skin, sand in places I won’t mention here, and I’m wearing every souvenir the ocean gave to me.
Love,
MJ