Before we left, my three kids — 13, 11, and 8 — were bright and funny, but they had hardened a little in ways I hadn’t noticed. So much of modern childhood is noise — screens, packed schedules, pressure from teachers, friends with sharp opinions. The middle one talked fast, the youngest copied, the oldest carried too much. They were amazing, but scattered. Influenced. Brain-tired.
When we went into the unknown, their detox began. Our conversations shifted — to the power of words, how we treat each other, how things are made and why, how we want to live now that we know there are more ways than one. With almost no screens and so much nature, they rediscovered boredom — and with it, creativity.
When I asked their favorite parts of this journey, their answers said everything.
Oldest: never having to be fully dressed, seeing so many animals, making things from nature, and visiting cousins.
Middle: animals, fire-making and whittling, and swimming anywhere and everywhere.
Youngest: growing up a lot, playing with cousins and siblings.
All this closeness hasn’t been perfect. There have been tired days and grumpy mornings, slammed car doors and too-loud laughter. But with only the four of us for company, we’ve had to face ourselves. The small space makes truth unavoidable. Every unkindness rises to the surface, and we’ve learned how to take responsibility right away — how to apologize, reset, and keep going together.
We started our homeschool year — our first since COVID — in rhythm with the road. No pressure, no comparison. Just learning by immersion: paper maps, workbooks in the park, science lessons growing from wherever we stopped. I watched them become more curious, less self-protective, more at home in their own skin.
I began to see a change in their eyes — white, clear, steady. The Spirit had returned to their countenances. After visits with their dad, they would come back dysregulated, fragile, then find their way to calm again. Each time, they became a little wilder, a little freer. Less afraid. More patient. More alive.
At the persistent requests of my younger two and their dad, and with Spirit’s merciful permission, we’ll be heading home for a while tomorrow. These weeks went by in a blink. As I hugged my kids goodnight tonight, I already missed them — the sweet, connected versions of themselves they’ve become. They are still mine, but I’ll have to share them again — with their father, with the world, with God. I’m hoping we can keep our nightly candle meeting alive, and that will help us remember what’s important.
My kids have been learning by wandering, asking deep questions, finding answers in the wind and the woods. I’ll miss knowing exactly where they are and what they’re doing, all within arm’s reach. But that’s the next lesson taught by the wilderness — learning to love them while letting them grow free.
For any moms who feel called to take their kids into the wild, here’s your packing list per child: two outfits and extra undies, a water bottle, a pocket knife, and a book or two. That’s it. The rest is provided on the road. At least it has been for us. Every step watched over. Every inch of us covered in His mercy.
What I’ve learned is that the wilderness was never about escape or adventure. It was about Presence—seeing them, and myself, as we really are when there’s nothing to perform.
Before the world begins to pull at them again, I’m cherishing the sweetness of the time the four of us lived close enough to hear the same heartbeat. I’ll keep listening and letting go, trusting that the same Presence who led us into the wilderness will walk beside them wherever they go next.
Peace to you,
-Selaiah