I was a hot mess in the weeks before Cancun. New passport for Kina, notary forms I wasn’t sure I needed, a pile of paperwork that made me second-guess every decision. For years, my husband was my verification system — the one I’d check with before crossing a border, before trusting myself. Now, I had to be the adult in the room. Fully.
My daughter (the 16 yr old) felt it too. At the airport, she kept asking if I had the passports, if I’d forgotten something, if I was sure. Her anxiety mirrored mine. But somewhere between the stress and the small moments of getting it right, something shifted. I 정신 차려’d. In Korean, jeongsin charyeo means “gather your mind” — but the feeling of it is sharper than that. It’s what your mother says when you need to wake up, zip yourself up, and do what has to be done. So I did.
And then we landed in Cancun.
The trip was quieter than any vacation we’d taken before. No packed itineraries, no Instagram-worthy excursions designed to prove we were a complete family. For years, I’d beefed up every trip with outings — partly for the kids, partly for the photos, mostly because I didn’t know who we were without the production. This time, I let it go.
Some of the best moments happened at the swim-up pool bar. The kids had never seen anything like it — seats submerged underwater, the four of us shoulder-deep, ordering tropical drinks while the sun moved across the sky. They got virgin piña coladas and strawberry daiquiris, the same drinks I’d loved as a kid. My youngest kept saying, eyes wide, “I can’t believe we’re swimming and having a drink at the same time.” That kind of incredulous wonder you only get from a six-year-old discovering that the world has more magic in it than she thought.
The food surprised us too — gourmet hot dogs, a steak salad so crisp and clean we kept ordering it. We were sure we’d get sick of the pool bar by day three. We never did.
I wasn’t performing family anymore. I was being family.
When we finally got home — three transfers and twenty hours later — it was almost 11pm. I door dashed us three hot bowls of seolleongtang, the Korean bone broth we eat when we need quick recovery. The girls said they weren’t hungry. They emptied the bowls.
I quietly thanked myself for not hesitating on my own decisions as a mother. Something I’ve struggled with for the last ten years.
I started a list in my head.