The Art of Summering

A reflection on slowing down, stepping back, and letting summer soften you.

The Season Is Here

There was a time—not that long ago—when summer came with a kind of collective exhale. Shops closed early. Cities emptied out. Children wandered, sun-kissed and barefoot. There was less rush, less noise. The expectation wasn’t to optimize or produce—it was to rest. To reset. To disappear for a while and return slightly changed.

In 19th and early 20th century America, the concept of summering was common. Families would leave town for weeks at a time—often heading to mountain retreats, coastal cottages, or lakeside cabins—where the days were loose and unstructured. Even those who stayed home lived a little differently in the summer. Dinner might be served cold. Chores were lighter. Conversation lingered longer after dusk.

And while it might sound like a quaint luxury now, the idea of stepping back seasonally—of taking a real, meaningful pause—is still alive and well in many parts of the world.

In France, for instance, the entire country seems to inhale and exhale in rhythm with the seasons. Come July and August, businesses shutter, out-of-office replies go up, and families retreat to the countryside or the coast. No apologies. Just a shared understanding that time spent living is as valuable as time spent working.

In Italy, it’s Ferragosto. In Spain, its siestas stretched into long weekends. Across Europe, the art of the long, slow summer isn’t seen as indulgent—it’s considered essential. It’s built into the culture. Into the rhythm of the year.

But for many Americans, that seasonal rhythm has quietly slipped away. Summer has become just another stretch of time to manage. We pencil in a long weekend here, a camp drop-off there. We juggle. We multitask. We scroll. And somewhere in all the planning and packing and patching things together, we forget to actually feel the slowness of summer. We spend so much of the year holding everything up—schedules, emotions, expectations—that when the rhythm changes, it can feel less like a relief and more like a disruption. I know, because I’ve felt it.

In recent years, I’ve had to gently remind myself (or shake myself into acknowelding) that this shift in rhythm is good for us. It’s the pause we need—even if it’s messy or imperfect or inconvenient. And I’ve found that making small sacrifices throughout the year—tightening in some places, stretching in others—has allowed us to take the kind of pause that actually nourishes.

This year, our family is intentionally summering for several weeks. It feels like both a return and an experiment. A return to something I crave deeply—a quieter, slower rhythm of living—and an experiment in what might change when we give ourselves permission to fully pause.

To let days stretch long.
To lose track of the hour.
To swap productivity for presence.

We’ll eat slow lunches, wander markets, and read on blankets in the shade.
We’ll fumble through conversations in another language and tuck wildflowers into vases that aren’t quite right. We’ll spend time as a family, not just in the margins but in the full width of the page. And of course, there will still be small squabbles and mosquito bites and travel hiccups. I’m not expecting it to be totally smooth, but I am leaving space for more clarity… that’s my resounding wish for the summer.

Because whenever I’ve managed to step back, even briefly, I find that something tender begins to stir. Space opens up. Ideas come more gently. My thoughts grow quieter. And in that quiet, I start to hear myself in a different way—not the version that answers emails or signs forms or meets deadlines, but the one that dreams a little. The one that collects light and texture. The one that moves more curiously. In the pause I find that I can better show up for my family, my friendships, my clients. The pause is something I’ve found to help me recover from burnout, from grief, from all of the ups and downs of life. It’s been the secret remedy to my big questions and small ponderings. It’s the key to the memories, laughter, joy and intention that I (we collectively) crave. It helps guide me in my personal life, yes, but has a trickle down effect to everything else I do.

I think we all need a version of that pause—whether it’s six weeks or six days or six minutes stolen in the afternoon. We need time not just off, but out. Out of our routines. Out of our constant striving. Out of the shoulds and into the senses.

What I hope to bring back with me isn’t just photos or flea market finds (though I’m sure there will be plenty of both), but a renewed sense of ease. A looseness. A bit of that unhurried grace that summer makes possible. I want to remember how good it feels to linger at the table. To walk just for the sake of walking. To sit on a stoop and do absolutely nothing. To spend time not just with my children, but alongside them, noticing what they notice. Letting them lead. And when I return, I want to find ways to hold onto it. To continue to explore what “living a beautiful life” means to me personally, how that translates to my time, and by extension how it translates to my work and the idea of home.

Maybe that’s the real gift of summering—not the escape, but the remembering. Remembering what we value when everything else falls away. Remembering how to move through time with softness. Remembering how to be, without always having to do.

So if you need a little permission, here it is:

You’re allowed to slow down.
You’re allowed to step back.
You’re allowed to take a break without earning it first.

Let summer work on you. Let it stretch your hours and soften your heart. Let it be ordinary and glorious at once. Even if your version looks nothing like an extended holiday—even if it’s just quiet mornings in your own backyard or a longer walk with your coffee—there’s space for slowness. There’s beauty in it. Because the season is here. And it won’t wait.

---