Have you ever said no to your child’s screen time… while holding your own phone?
I have. More than once.

Or found yourself at a dinner where at least seven phones sat on the table—picked up not for emergencies or photos, but for quick scrolls no one even remembers. Just little dopamine hits. Fast and empty.

I do love taking a quick photo to remember a moment. And yes—I look back at them often.
But I don’t post live anymore. I snap, then I step back into the moment.
When I do share, it’s usually long after. I love telling the story. The beauty. The daily poetry of it all.

My photos are often imperfect. They weren’t made for the art—unlike the ones my husband takes, with his eye for light and stillness. That’s his way of slowing down. Of honoring time.

I came back from our most recent trip to Croatia, once more, a cliché.
I’ve always been one. A chronic romanticizer of daily life. That part of me remains beautifully unhealed.

But this time, I also came back… puzzled.

We witnessed so many different lifestyles—yes, we were on holiday, but we mingled with locals, friends, wedding guests. We spoke. We listened. We observed.

That’s the gift of renting homes instead of resorts. You get to meet the people.
Live beside them, even if just for a moment.

Our first apartment in Hvar broke my heart a little to leave.
Not because it was luxurious—but because it was real.

It was quiet, but never silent.
No notifications.
No one listing off their schedule out loud to prove how productive they were—hoping it would earn them a gold star, or at least a nod of validation.

And I say that without judgment.
I’ve been there too. I’ve worked hard, pushed limits, stayed busy for the sake of being busy.
Productivity has its place—it’s helped me build a life I’m proud of.
But I’ve also learned that rest isn’t the enemy of ambition.
Sometimes, the most meaningful moments happen when nothing is getting done on paper.

We were fifteen minutes’ walk from the old town, along the beach.
The balcony looked out on the ocean, ships drifting by—maybe crowded, but far enough to feel peaceful.
The kitchen was outside. The whole kitchen.
And the footpath to the dock wove between tomato plants, olive trees, and old brick ovens.

Waves.
A boat passing.
The owner picking tomatoes.
My daughter, mouth full of blueberries, pointing excitedly at a yellow sailboat.

And then—she saw my phone.
“Can I have it?” she asked.
I said no.

And immediately, I wondered: Why was my phone even in my hand?
My husband was right there beside us.
Any emergency from home was unlikely to reach me in that moment—and even if it had, I’d have been useless, in another timezone.

So I put it away.

I sat down. Filled my own mouth and hands with blueberries.
And called out:
“Emma! Look—there’s a red one now!”