Vacationing with My Parents at 30
I always imagined that by now—30 years old—I’d be married with a couple of kids in tow, renting a beach house or heading to some all-inclusive family resort. I pictured sunblock-streaked toddlers, a husband struggling with the umbrella, and me half-laughing, half-stressed while packing up juice boxes and sand toys.
Instead, here I am, 30 years old, vacationing with my parents. Just me, my mom, and my dad, sharing a cozy little cabin tucked away in the woods near the beach I’ve got my own room with a full-size bed, a suitcase full of outfits I’ll probably never wear, and no tiny humans pulling at my shirt. Eric couldn’t make the trip—he’s holding down the fort and watching Penny (our dog and basically my child). No husband. No kids. Just me.
And you know what? I thought this would make me feel some type of way—like maybe I’d feel behind, or out of place, or like I missed some big milestone. But honestly… it didn’t. Not even a little.
Instead, I feel relaxed. Present. Grounded. And more than anything—grateful.
My brother, sister-in-law, and nephew are close by in their own cabin, which makes it even better. I get to be a part of their daily rhythm without being in it. They pop over for breakfast or I join them for afternoon pool time. I get to chase my nephew around and hear him laugh until he’s red in the face, then hand him back off to Mom and Dad when it’s nap time. Auntie Dev is living her best life. I get the magic, the sweetness, the bonding—without the responsibility. And that’s not something I take for granted.
Back at our cabin, life slows down. My mom and I drink coffee and matcha in our pajamas on the porch, the breeze soft through the trees. My dad and I take turns picking dinner spots or playing bartender for the night. We laugh over card games, swap old stories, and remind each other of vacations we took when I was little. How I used to beg to stay in the pool past dark. How my dad once let me eat ice cream for dinner on a dare. How none of us could ever agree on what music to play in the car.
Now I’m grown—but in a lot of ways, I still get to be their kid. Like when I conveniently “forget” my wallet before a bar run or a stop at the liquor store, and Doug (my dad) just shakes his head and pays for me anyway. He still insists. He still shows up. Just like he always has.
And my mom? Still stunning. Still sharp. Still rolling her eyes at my dad’s dad-jokes while somehow aging in reverse. Shoutout to my hot momma who continues to defy time. I hope I age half as gracefully—and with half as much wit.
This trip reminded me that the life I imagined in my twenties isn’t the one I’m living—but that doesn’t mean it’s any less full. It’s just different. And in a lot of ways, it’s better. There’s no pressure. No nap schedules. No toddler meltdowns. Just family, nature, laughter, and the freedom to show up as I am.
So here’s to vacationing with your parents at 30. To having your own room, your own quiet mornings, and a dad who still picks up the tab when you forget your wallet. To being an auntie, a daughter, a grown-up who still feels like a kid sometimes—and realizing that this version of life, the one you didn’t plan, is pretty damn sweet.
XOXO - Devon
