A Season of Connection, Motion, and Coming Home
A season of motion
I blinked, and suddenly it’s December.
The past six weeks were a whirlwind—five conferences, thousands of miles, and more name tags, microphones, and hallway conversations than I could possibly count. Every fall, I know this rhythm is coming, and somehow it still surprises me. I left Silverton in late October when everything was brown and waiting for winter, and I returned to snow creeping down from the high peaks and a quiet that feels earned.
I missed writing. I missed noticing. But when life moves that quickly, the noticing shifts—it gets quieter but sharper. A conversation that lingers. A trail that winds behind a lodge. The smell of pine needles on a wet morning. The way camp buildings hold stories.
This fall my central intention was connection.
Not the transactional kind, not the “nice to meet you” kind, but the deeper sort—the kind that happens in hallways and porches and in-between moments. I wanted to design events that made those moments easier, bigger, more intentional. The heart of camp has always lived in the unscheduled spaces; what if a conference could actually honor that?
And truly… it happened.
People noticed the pacing, the breathing room, the creativity in our evening socials. And because so many of our events were at camps, attendees got to do what camp people love most: explore. We found the coolest double Murphy-bed designs, wandered through dining halls stocked as if the barge still dropped food only twice a summer (because once upon a time, they did), hiked lakefront trails, checked out mountain bike tracks, and admired bathroom facilities so intentionally designed you’d think they were art.
Camp people love what works for your unique situation.
Systems that solve real problems. Creativity that shows itself in wood grain, storage shelves, and bunk design. These details are tiny love letters to the work.
Somewhere in the middle of all the movement, I spontaneously decided to bring Alida, my 9-year-old, on the final leg of the tour. I worried, of course. Would I be too busy? Would she be bored or glued to an iPad? But the first morning, as I was setting up upstairs, she slipped away. When I realized I hadn’t seen her in an hour, I checked our room, the dining hall… nothing.
Then I walked downstairs to the emerging professionals pre-conference, and there she was—in it. Sitting among twenty camp pros in their twenties and thirties, fully immersed, chatting, absorbing, nodding along. It became her rhythm for the next three days: attending sessions, listening to the keynote, being part of the community. More than one participant told me how refreshing it was to have an actual camper in the room. A reminder of the “why” in real time.
We even caught the Northern Lights one night—an unexpected ribbon of color across the sky that felt like a gift for simply being present.
And then I came home.
Straight into Thanksgiving. Straight into picking up Phen from Steamboat. Straight into a kind of stillness that only comes when the world slows down after a long stretch of movement.
Most people leave Silverton this time of year- it’s dark early, cold everywhere, and the weather limits everything. But Phen wanted to be home, Steve wanted to start making ice for the hockey rink, and honestly, our budget said “stay.” So we stayed.
We brought out all the crafting supplies and decided to decorate for Christmas early. Normally, we wait for my birthday on December 5th, but traditions can shift when you need them to. This year, the tree is fuller than ever. We polished the silver bells, made candles, gathered greenery from the woods, wrapped the banister and doorway, built a wreath, and created a twig tree hung with dried fruit and small handmade ornaments.
It wasn’t flashy, but it was intentional. A soft landing after a season of movement.
Coming back to Silverton always takes a moment of recalibration. The quiet can feel abrupt after so much motion, but it also offers the space to see clearly again. To feel the gratitude that gets stirred up on the road. To remember why this place—this altitude, this community—matters so much to me.
I’m finding my way back to the page, slowly, gratefully.
Winter is settling in.
And I’m grateful to be home.
Seasons like this always make me think about the choices we make for our families—when to move, when to stay, and when to come home. If you’re navigating a season of decision, you may find the parent resources I’ve gathered helpful.
