Edisto Reflections

There’s a peculiar kind of magic that lingers in the air at Edisto Island—a feeling that quietly consumes you as soon as you arrive. This winter solstice, I found myself there, beyond blessed not only by the company I kept but by the very soul of the island itself. Edisto doesn’t just exist; it reaches out, embraces you, and claims you in ways both gentle and profound.

I saw a sign that proclaimed, in at least similar words, that “Edisto Island belongs to Jesus.” I couldn’t help but feel it. Not in the preachy sense, but in the way the land, the water, and the salt-tinged air seemed sacred, untouched by the hurried chaos of the modern world. It was as though the island was whispering to those who would stop long enough to listen.

We spent countless hours by the water, the sharp wind biting at our faces. The beach stretched endlessly, empty and beautiful—I don’t think I’ve ever been on a beach with no people—as though it had been waiting just for us. The Atlantic felt alive in its vastness, brown reeds bending toward it as if in prayer. The ocean, as always, felt like it welcomed me home.

The dolphins came as if on cue each evening in the Scott Creek just beyond where we stayed. Each day, my beloved had known they would come. His understanding of marine life is something I marvel at, a quiet mastery born from passion and observation. He had predicted their arrival with such accuracy it felt like he’d summoned them. He knew the names of every bird that graced the skies and the shores, pointing them out with soft respect. Even the tiniest creatures washed up on the sand became subjects of his gentle curiosity. Each one was introduced to me like an old friend and I felt a profound sense of gratitude, not only for the knowledge but for the one who shared it with me. The one who sees the world so deeply, who knows when the dolphins will come and the stories the sand can tell.

Edisto doesn’t feel like a place on a map. It feels like a dream, trapped in time in the best way. The tiny Food Lion, nestled unassumingly beside a parking lot so small we missed it—twice—embodied that feeling. It was cramped and homey, bustling but not hurried. In its simplicity, that store felt like the beach. Not the polished beaches with overpriced souvenirs and overcrowded boardwalks. No, Edisto felt like THE BEACH. The one I picture in my mind when the word itself is spoken. The one that smells of wet reeds and cold air, where the sound of waves isn’t a background noise but is everything.

On the street beside the ocean stood a mailbox shaped like a dolphin, carved in stone. It was one of those things that would have been easy to overlook in passing, but it stayed with me. Something about it felt deeply significant—this quiet, enduring marker of a place where the ocean and the land seemed to meet in mutual understanding. It reminded me that Edisto, like everywhere else on this globe, isn’t just a location; it’s a collection of moments, of sights and sounds and feelings that don’t fit neatly into words. It is a place where time bends and everything feels simultaneously right and liminal, like it exists slightly out of reach yet wraps itself around you completely. Edisto Island isn’t just a place I visited; it’s a place that now lives within me. It’s the stillness of a winter solstice, the warmth of beloved company, the gift of a fleeting dolphin’s leap. And strangely enough, an entire novel has now begun to take form from a dream and a dolphin mailbox.

So that was then. And now, the New Year has come and gone, its arrival quiet but significant as normal routine resumes. For the first time in what feels like forever, I’ve been blessed with a very long vacation—a gift of uninterrupted time that I’ve savored in every possible way. I’ve spent countless hours writing, pouring thoughts into the ether, letting my creativity flow freely. I’ve relaxed in ways I’d forgotten I needed, sunk into moments of stillness without the guilt that often accompanies rest (but let me tell you, some days were certainly quite the battle against that guilt).

There have been long conversations and even longer drives, the kind where the world feels bigger yet smaller all at once. I’ve spent time with my bunnies, their soft warmth a reminder that love can be as simple as the companionship of a living stuffed animal, their little personalities seeming to grow even more each day. I’ve watched movies, indulged in true crime series, yapped and yapped to my loved ones, journaled my thoughts, and spent quiet mornings with my Bible. These small rituals have anchored me, reminding me of how precious it is to simply be.

Not to sound like Kylie Jenner, but… it really has been a year of realizing things. Reflecting on where I was this time last year versus where I am now, I am overwhelmed with pride for myself. A year ago, I was a different version of me—still growing, still learning, but not yet fully stepping into the light I now hold. Today, I can confidently say that I am happier than I have ever been. I am safer than I have ever been. I feel more loved than I ever have—and, most importantly, I offer those things to myself.

So here’s to the year ahead—to more long drives, more laughter, more mornings spent journaling and reading. To continuing to offer myself the love and kindness I deserve. And to embracing contentment—not as something fleeting, but as the foundation for everything else.