At the End of Summer, I Keep Thinking About Two Coconuts

What a favorite memory taught me about wonder, presence, and what sustains us.

By Dr. Lacey Rosenbaum

We’re in the final hours of summer at our house.

The school supplies have been dropped off. Backpacks and new shoes—which I’ve spent all week threatening everyone not to get muddy—are waiting. Bedtimes are about to become real again. And I’m doing what I always do at the end of a season: feeling a complicated mix of emotions, wondering where the time went, and questioning whether we made enough of it.

Summer has a way of creating that pressure. Make the memories—because, as every sappy post reminds us, we only get 18 summers with these babies! Plan the adventures. Soak up every minute. But also, you know, work your job.

When I think about what stood out most this summer, though, it isn’t anything I carefully planned.

It’s two coconuts.

The Iguana Who Did Not Share the Dream

Before our family trip to Puerto Rico, life had felt heavy. Like so many people, I found myself carrying the weight of rising costs, the constant news cycle, and the uncertainty so many families, educators, healthcare professionals, and community leaders are navigating.

It can leave you wondering how to stay hopeful without looking away from what’s hard.

Maybe that’s why the trip felt so meaningful. Not because it was perfect—it wasn’t—but because, for a little while, we were able to be fully present with our kids.

One of Theadora’s biggest dreams for our trip was to hug an iguana.

For days, we looked everywhere. Every walk became an expedition. Every rustle in the bushes made us stop.

When we finally spotted one, it took off running. Both kids squealed and chased after it as though they had discovered a dinosaur—and my goodness, iguanas are speedy little things.

Theadora was still holding out hope for that hug. The iguana, unfortunately, did not share the dream.

We caught the whole thing on video, and I don’t think I’ve laughed that hard in a long time.

It wasn’t the kind of moment you plan. It was the kind you remember.

The Two Coconuts

Then there were the coconuts.

The kids each got a fresh coconut in Old San Juan and immediately decided the coconuts were coming with us for the rest of the trip. They rode in the car across Puerto Rico. They joined us on beach days. They came in and out of Airbnbs. They somehow became honorary members of the family. By the time we reached El Yunque National Forest, they had clearly lived full and adventurous little coconut lives. Standing on a balcony overlooking the rainforest, the kids looked at each other and decided it was time. Together, they tossed the coconuts into the forest and shouted:

“Have a great life, coconuts! We love you!”

It was delightfully silly. And completely perfect.

The Moments That Stayed

There were bigger moments on our trip. Beautiful beaches. Sunsets. Old San Juan.

Hiking through the rainforest—and discovering that an “extreme” trail really is extreme.

But the memories that stayed with me were often the ones that went a little off course.

One night, we waited forever for dinner during a local festival before finally giving up, stopping at a grocery store, and letting the kids choose whatever they wanted.

Mini cheeseburgers. Hot Pockets. Chips. And an enormous birthday cake. We ate on the porch of our beach bungalow, laughed as we sang Cake by the Ocean, and realized that our completely unplanned grocery-store dinner had somehow become one of our favorite meals of the trip.

That is what stands out as summer ends: not the perfect itinerary, but the laughter. Not the things we felt obligated to make meaningful, but the ordinary moments that became meaningful all by themselves.

When Self-Care Becomes One More Thing to Do

As both a psychologist and a parent, I spend a lot of time thinking about resilience, well-being, and what helps people sustain themselves through demanding seasons.

We hear a lot about self-care. Wake up at 4:00 a.m. to work out. Meditate. Journal. Drink more water. Eat ALL the protein. Meal-prep something involving quinoa. Get eight hours of sleep—although the math on that remains unclear. Set boundaries. Practice gratitude. Maintain meaningful friendships. Be fully present with your children. And, of course, limit your screen time while remembering to document the meaningful moments.

All while working, parenting, caregiving, keeping everyone alive, and paying attention to a world that feels increasingly heavy.

Even caring for ourselves can begin to feel like one more area of life we’re somehow doing incorrectly. And many of the people who most need time to recover have the least access to it. A bath, a walk, or a weekend away might feel wonderful, but they cannot create more hours in the day, make childcare affordable, reduce an impossible workload, or repair systems that ask too much of people for too long.

That doesn’t mean small acts of care don’t matter. They do. But I’m becoming less interested in telling people what else they should add to their lives and more interested in what helps us feel alive within the lives we already have.

Sometimes what restores us is surprisingly ordinary—and not something we planned or performed correctly. It’s laughter. Wonder. Time with people we love. A moment when we become fully present without first deciding that we ought to be.

This summer, that looked like two children chasing an iguana. Holding hands on a slippery trail. Silly jokes in the car. A disastrous dinner that became a family story. Saying goodbye to two coconuts.

None of it was a wellness strategy. But all of it gave something back to me.

To Be So Lucky

And honestly, to be so lucky.

To be so lucky to take this trip at all. To have the time, health, and resources to bring our children somewhere so beautiful. To experience Puerto Rico’s culture, food, music, warmth, and extraordinary landscapes together.

I know what a privilege that was, and I don’t take it lightly.

But I also don’t think we have to travel across an island—or manufacture a magical summer—to find the moments that sustain us.

Sometimes it’s playing in the ocean until you lose track of time. Sometimes it’s laughing over a dinner that went completely off the rails. Sometimes it’s simply noticing that you are inside a moment you’ll want to keep.

The world is still heavy. The laundry is still here. Tomorrow, the alarm clocks will ring really early and the backpacks will head out the door.

I don’t think the answer to any of that is another productivity hack or another thing we’re supposed to do perfectly in the name of self-care.

I think part of the answer may be quieter: protecting our capacity to notice and experience the small moments of joy, wonder, and laughter that help us return to what matters.

So, in these final hours of summer, I’m trying not to measure whether we did enough or made every moment count.

I’m thinking about how lucky we were to be here for it—the beautiful parts, the exhausting parts, the plans that worked, and the dinners that absolutely did not.

And I’m thinking about two well-traveled coconuts that lived a very good life before being returned to the Puerto Rican rainforest with love.

A Question I’m Carrying

As this season comes to an end, what small moment do you want to carry with you?

I’d love to hear your story.