when the tides turn

If I’ve learned anything about travel (and life), it’s that tides turn. Sometimes faster than you can catch your balance.

Joe was here for the first two weeks of our Boundless cohort, and—lesson learned—that’s not the way we’ll kick off a program again. Then the real hilarity (or irony) began: everyone got sick the moment he left.

Week one post-Joe: Harlen was down. Week two: Harlen again, this time with upper respiratory stuff—throat, cough, the works. Then me—longer and gnarlier than hers. And finally, while I was (technically still am) still trying to recover, Joen came down with his very own stomach saga.

Even so, we pressed on. The Boundless crew presented us with an awesome opportunity to take a side trip to Žabljak for fresh mountain air, barbecue, quad rides, and winding roads. The bus ride was about three hours from Kotor, carrying us into cooler air. By the time we arrived, evening had fallen. Joen, tired and not up for the noise of the other kids, chose to sit with me at a separate table. It meant I missed another chance to connect with the adults—but my heart will always choose sitting with my children over anyone else. Let’s be honest.

The next morning I woke up not feeling great, but we were all buzzing with excitement for the quads. It was raining, so we geared up as best we could. Nobody canceled. The whole crew was in it to win it—until about thirty minutes in, when our teeth started chattering and we were all questioning our sanity. Lightning cracked across the sky. “Nope, we’re done,” I thought. Kids were piled into support vans, some asleep in the laps of guides, parents steering quads back through the mud. A mix of calamity and hilarity.

By afternoon, the skies cleared and we made our way to the Black Lake—absolutely magnificent. Within minutes, Joen proved me right in the most ironic way: just seconds after I warned him, “Be careful or you’re going to fall in,” he toppled straight into the water. Cue twenty minutes of talking him down and drying him off while my throat begged me to shut up and give it some water.

Then, as if that weren’t enough, another problem hit: no food. We had packed only bus-ride snacks. So we fed our kids whatever was around—mostly ice cream—and hoped for the best. Bone-cold from the morning, running on sugar, everyone was frayed. I ended up in a grocery store with another mom, scrambling for supplies for the barbecue. All the while, apologizing. Apologizing for not showing up the way I wanted to. Apologizing for feeling like a shadow of the person I am at home—the one who shows up, organizes, leads, supports. Here, I just felt floundering, lost, aimless. Add sickness on top of that, and it was a heavy weight on my heart.

That night, the barbecue carried on in the rain—another one for the books. And the next morning, the quads again. I woke up thinking: There is no way. I can’t. I just need to rest. My body is weary and my heart is tired from giving and giving and giving. But once again, the kids pulled me forward. And when I slowed down, took it moment by moment, I found the energy. The day was gorgeous. I couldn’t stop smiling. My heart was full to bursting—overflowing with gratitude and wonder and awe.

It reminded me of walking my first Camino de Santiago, when I went from feeling fine to gasping for air within half an hour. Bronchitis hit me like a train, and I was forced off the trail into a tiny village where I stayed three days with a Dutch couple who took me in. Everyone else walked on ahead. At the time, it felt devastating. But it became a defining moment of my life. Obstacles, I realized, are sometimes blessings in disguise—they slow you down, force you into a different rhythm, give you a perspective you never would have gained otherwise.

This weekend felt the same. It wasn’t what I imagined—community, friendships, seamless fun—but it was still a gift. A reminder to let go of expectations, to find the blessing tucked inside the mess.

The ride home was another three-hour bus trip, with its own little bumps and mishaps I can laugh about now. But by the time we returned to Kotor, the celebration of the year had arrived: Boka Night. Boats lit up the bay, fireworks and concerts echoing off the mountains, thousands gathered together. And me? Bowing out again. What I really wanted was to curl up in a dark room, saying little to nothing because my throat hurt so badly and it was getting harder to breathe.

I had to look my kids in the eyes and tell them no. Instead, we went for groceries before Sunday’s closures. As a consolation, I agreed to head back out to pet the street cats and sat in the square. We agreed on twenty minutes—but “just one minute, Mom” turned into two hours. Two hours of wiping my nose on my arms because I wasn’t prepared, two hours of struggling to catch a full breath, two hours of unraveling in my own head. And of course, right then, our entire cohort strolled by. “Oh look, Jamison is out!”

Cue the guilt spiral. The kids begged to go watch the boats with their friends, and I was still begging them to let me go lay down. In the end, we went—and yes, I’m glad we did, because it was something they may never get to experience again. But by the time we got home, they were loud about their disappointment. I hit my breaking point. I was just done.

And that’s when the bigger talk came: This is a two-way street. When you’re sick, I give you everything I’ve got. And when I’m sick? You’ve got to learn to bend, too. Disappointment is part of life, and none of us are immune to it.

So here we are. My voice still hoarse, lungs slowly mending. We’ve missed kayaking, and today there’s a cooking class I can’t bring myself to attend—because breathing over other people’s food just doesn’t feel cool.

We’re four days from the end now, and my heart is in two places. One part is tired, heavy, still recovering. The other feels freshly broken: because just as I’m finding my footing, it’s time to go.

I wanted more friendships. I wanted more nights where laughter stretched too long, more mornings with coffee shared among faces that had turned familiar. The truth is, connections aren’t built in DMs—they’re built in all the tiny, in-person, messy, human moments I missed.

So yes, the tides turned. But maybe that’s the beauty of tides. They always come back. And so will we.