On geologic time, parenting time, and the impossible wish to reinhabit even 42 seconds of either.
A billion years ago, I would have been incinerated where I stood.
That’s when geologists say the hot magma of the mantle erupted through the crust here, along the Midcontinent Rift. But a lot has happened in those years. Now the remnants carpet the shore as black and burgundy stones, polished by the great lake that’s filled in over countless storms.
Lake Superior is what I had come here for. Big water helps me feel right-sized. It reminds me that there are forces larger than me in this world. I need reminding.
Two days earlier, I had clapped my youngest son out of preschool. He wore a white t-shirt with his handprints memorialized in red and green fabric paint. The shirt was made to be grown into. His lips formed a straight line as he shuffled out. The video I took cuts off after five seconds, when he buried himself in my chest. Eleven years into parenthood, and we were all done with preschool.
I can’t get to big water every day. But it was Memorial Day weekend, and we had no plans, so that Sunday, the five of us packed into the car and drove two hours north to Duluth to throw rocks in the lake for the day.
The first time we stopped, the sun was strong enough that you wanted a barrier between it and your skin. I tied my four-year-old’s robin’s egg blue bucket hat under his chin. His brothers had handed it down to him. It was snug now. We would pass it down to someone else next summer.
When my middle son told me to put my hand in the water, I felt the jolt of it, nearly too cold to still be water. The preschool graduate threw sticks. We all threw rocks. It was like I had fantasized parenting would be: All of us content in a big world together. My middle son gave me a sun-warmed heart-shaped rock. I made a wish as I tossed it into the deep: Help me find this feeling when I’m not here.
Later, driving on Highway 61, fat raindrops began to slap our minivan. The storm was a contradiction: blue skies and white clouds to one side and slate-gray ones smearing toward the horizon on the other. Veils of fog levitated from the pavement. I asked my husband to pull over. The boys wanted to stay in the car. So this time I went down to the water alone.
I pulled out my phone. I framed a perfect shot with driftwood, fog rising off the lake, and the two halves of the sky. I recorded 42 seconds, enough to catch two rounds of bone-deep thunder. I thought the video might help my wish come true.
Then I replayed it. The fog looked like a smudge on the lens, not the gauzy thresholds we’d driven through. I turned up the volume all the way but couldn’t feel the thunder in my belly. I couldn’t hear it at all. I became aware of my own hand holding the phone. My fleshy fingers looked too big against the recorded horizon.
There on the shore of Lake Superior, I could still feel the rocks under my feet, but the moment was already gone. The storm had shifted. My baby was growing up.
My phone has 2,831 videos on it. That’s 2,831 moments I can’t reinhabit. But it’s also a record of 2,831 times I felt something deeply enough to reach for a way to keep it. The videos can’t give that feeling back. But 2,831 of them is proof the real world keeps offering more.
Magma solidifies. Babies grow. I can’t rewind a billion years, or two days, or even 42 seconds. But the moments keep coming. My phone has room for more.
I picked up another rock, smooth and volcanic. The heat was gone. But it was the right size for my palm.
What I’ve Been Up To
Feeling grateful for the response to last month’s essay. Judging by the lovely emails and messages I got (plus one unexpected shoutout from the American Society of Journalists and Authors), The Cactus Myth — about how my solo 40th birthday trip taught me about interdependence — resonated with a lot of you. (And, yes, they know there’s a typo in my name.)
Preparing to give a talk about estimating your capacity for freelance work. I was asked to speak on a panel for the American Society of Journalists and Authors called “Life Happens: How to Manage Your Capacity During Transitions.” My part is “Before You Say Yes: Estimating Your Capacity When Work Is Only Part of the Picture.” Here’s the backstory: I mentioned to some colleagues that I have a spreadsheet that gives me instant, custom projections for how long a new assignment will take. They wanted a tour, and they thought the wider freelancing community should see it. They told me I should sell it. Which is probably smart. But instead, I’m giving away a free template to attendees of our June 16 talk.
Attending #HJ26. When the health journalists come to town, you put on your hard pants. I transitioned into health journalism circa the start of the pandemic and work remotely, which help explain why I hadn’t yet met any colleagues in person. That changed in a big way over the past four days, when I suited up, shook hands, and swapped stories with some of the very best in the biz at the AHCJ Health Journalism conference in Minneapolis.
Explaining how three new studies about bipolar disorder have practical implications for people living with it. This month, I dive into how mindfulness therapy may help teens who self-harm, how anxiety complicates the bipolar disorder picture, and how daily habits may shift the odds of developing bipolar disorder if it runs in your family. Read the article at bpHope: Bipolar Research & Insights: Teen Mindfulness, Anxiety, and Lifestyle Habits | May 2026
Book Recommendation
The Correspondent: A Novel, by Virginia Evans
I resisted this book. It’s a New York Times Bestseller, and I have a contrarian streak. Plus, I’m picky about epistolatory novels (I hate a gimmick). But I did more driving than I had planned during my birthday trip to Tucson, burned through my audiobooks, and gave in. I’m so glad I did. This novel was great company, and I’ll just say that the format earns itself. The way Sybil’s letters unfolded reminded me of what it actually feels like to get to know someone. You have your first impression and then, bit by bit, you learn more. Some of it you like, some you don’t. But understanding someone better tends to make you love them more. And Sybil was no exception.
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2 thoughts on “Time on the Rocks”