Sparkling Escapades Abroad with the Fairy Bra Mother

They say the biggest waves
don’t come alone—
they come in sevens.

One after another,
building quietly,
as if the ocean is asking,
Are you still watching?

Trouble feels like that.
Not one thing.
Not one hard day.

But seasons that arrive in sets,
each wave a little heavier than the last,
until you’re counting just to stay upright.

I learned this from the sea.
In Cabo, I stood where it felt safe—
ankle-deep water,
cool and curious,
watching ghost crabs vanish
into holes too small to believe.

I was looking down,
at beauty,
at detail,
at the sand.

And I turned my back.

The water rose without asking,
knees swallowed,
feet tugged forward,
the pull relentless.
What had felt playful
almost took me down.

Another season.
Another shore.

Punta Cana—
water no deeper than my waist,
because I don’t swim,
because I know my limits.

We were walking in
when the people on the beach began to shout.
Pointing.
Warning.

We turned—
just slightly.
That was enough.

A wave struck hard,
chest-high,
knocking laughter right out of us.

She fell back.
I fell forward.
And suddenly the ocean had us—
rolling,
dragging,
refusing to let go.

At first it was funny.
Then it wasn’t.
I couldn’t get my footing.
Couldn’t stand.
Couldn’t breathe the way I wanted to.

So I pushed—
face down,
arms burning,
heart racing—
and somehow,
I rose.

Scraped.

Sandy.

Shaken.

Still alive.

Sand followed me longer than I liked.
Some of it took days to wash away.

Life does that too.
Some seasons barely touch your feet.

Others come in sevens—
grief, doubt, blame, responsibility, fear—
each one saying,

Stay alert.

Stay standing.

The ocean was never cruel.
It wasn’t personal.
It was powerful.
And I forgot to face it.

So now I watch the waves.
I count them.
I respect their rhythm.

I don’t try to conquer the sea.
I don’t pretend the water won’t rise.
I stand where I can.
I face what’s coming.

And when the last wave passes—
because it always does—
I rise again.
Scraped.
Sandy.
Breathing.
Still here.