I will always remember those early days of beginning again with mixed emotions. I awoke each morning intending to be hopeful. I wanted to believe that Mongin Island would heal me and that I would find the peace I so desperately needed—but I was also afraid that even Mongin would not be enough.
Just a few months ago, on a sunless October morning, I boarded the early Mongin Island Ferry with the determination of making my new home on this island off South Carolina’s coast. That day, I was too nervous and numb to even think of sitting during that ride, so I stood on deck and grasped the railing with an anxiety I had never felt in crossing these waters with my husband Rob and our kids. We had come to think of Mongin as our island.
That October morning, I was alone and flooded with grief. The engine churned and the ferry rolled into a briny morning fog so thick that I could not even glimpse Mongin until we were almost to the dock. That arrival certainly was not what Rob and I had envisioned as we made our plans to leave behind our large, comfortable house in Atlanta where we had raised our kids and sent them off into the world. We were dreaming of a romantic, new, second life on this island with such a storied past that historians and novelists had chronicled its chapters and filmmakers had shot movies along its shores and its giant, mossy 400-year-old live oaks.
For many years, Rob and I had planned for this milestone: the end of childrearing, hectic family schedules, and the guardrails that kept all the energy of our growing family hemmed into our neat, suburban life—and the beginning of our next stage, together. We envisioned this move happening when our kids were well established and we were young and healthy enough to live on an island without a bridge, hours away from them. The kids were supposed to have their independent lives and we would have ours. Of course, we would all get together for long weekends, trips to the beach, vacations, and holidays and build those bonds with our now adult children and the people our children brought into our lives. This was what today was supposed to be—this end and this beginning. This was how the big move was supposed to unfold, with eagerly anticipated roles for everyone as we built our future together.
This long-term planning included years of intensive professional hurdles that both Rob and I had to clear. Then, we would scale back so we could become year-round islanders with our fingers left in a few carefully chosen professional projects that did not depend on our location. We could play as much golf and pickleball as we wanted—like many of the islanders we had met in our frequent visits to the house we had bought on Mongin. We could catch up on all the reading we’d never done, enjoy home cooking with the rich bounty of coastal ingredients, explore those talents we’d never had time to fully hone and perhaps discover new ones, walk on the beach, and enjoy the fruits of our corporate careers. As Meredith, our oldest, landed her teaching position at a prestigious Atlanta private school and Nicholas, our youngest, graduated from college, the time was nearing for our big move.
Then, on one unseasonably cold morning in April, I woke up and Rob did not. His massive heart attack came as a complete surprise to everyone because he took excellent care of himself. He was the picture of health—a traumatic lesson that things may not be all they seem. I can barely recall the details of the funeral and those first weeks of grief. Days were just a blend of getting through things, too numb and too lost to focus on any one thing.
By May, however, friends and colleagues either assumed that grief had run its course or they simply ran out of things to say. So, they turned to well-intentioned but jarring encouragement that I “get it together as you always do.” How could I do that without Rob? The truth was that I was relieved to let our attorney settle all of Rob’s affairs for me because it was all I could do to wake up each morning, climb out of bed, and get dressed for the day. Some days, even that didn’t happen. As a partner in my consulting firm, each day at work felt like slogging through another marathon of details I could not seem to embrace or internalize.
June, July, and August passed with much of the same: Endless days of me trying to grasp daily life and sorting the many details of starting over again. Even learning to cook for just one and learning to eat in silence without someone to share the tidbits of life felt impossible some days. I was trying to remember how to do all of it. I wanted to be present for my children, who were also dealing with a tremendous loss. Rob had been an exceptional father and I know during this time, they likely felt like they lost us both.
One routine that helped bring consistency and structure to my days was journaling. I committed to writing at least a sentence or two daily. More and more the entries referred to a memory or a thought of Mongin. One day, I finally found a phrase to describe the island’s allure: tranquil energy. The same day I jotted that phrase in my journal, I resolved to sell my Atlanta house along with nearly all of its contents, downsize my consulting role to a few projects of my choosing—and to begin a new life on Mongin.
Alone.
Some steps proved easier than others. When I started what I assumed would be a very difficult talk with my business partner, I soon realized he supported my decision to step away.
I was relieved by his first words after I had spilled what I thought was a revelation about my decision to leave: “You know,” he said, “I never would have said anything, but—” I was thankful at how smoothly we developed a plan for the business that would let him launch a new version of the company, let me recoup, and ensure that I could still play a small role in the future as long as I wanted to pursue a few projects. Like me, he was ready to head in a new direction.
Although I presented them with another loss for which they may not have been completely ready, my children stood with me in this decision.
“I’m glad you’ve found the next chapter of your story, Mom,” Nicholas said at the end of a video call. I could see tears on his cheeks—and that boy never cried. Those tears were for me, for him, for us, for all we had lost and for maybe also for what he hoped we would gain.
“Hey, let’s not forget all the wonderful things we had and let’s look forward to the new, wonderful things we will have. We are lucky, still, to have each other and I am grateful to you and Meredith for having the strength I did not,” I told him, not really feeling the confidence and enthusiasm I tried to inject into my voice. Still, I wanted him to be reassured and comforted.
“Mom, don’t worry. Believe me, I am grateful. Life is different now and I get it. Now, realizing home will not be Atlanta anymore, it will be Mongin, it’s just been a lot for all of us,” he said softly. “We love you.”
Then, the next morning, with a final wave to our neighbors, I set out on the four-hour drive to the ferry. Inevitably, I thought of how far back this journey had started.
When we traveled to Mongin Island fifteen years ago, we had no idea what we were doing. A year before, Rob’s business partnership had uprooted our idyllic life in Connecticut and transplanted us to Atlanta. We all felt like ships bobbing on the water with no land in sight. For Rob, maybe it was a little easier. His law firm asked him to move and open a new health care law practice as their newest branch. Rob had a purpose and a promotion. He welcomed the adventure of carving out a whole new role, networking, and building a business.
Nicholas was in early elementary school and the impact of the move from the cozy New England suburb was soothed by a great soccer team and a neighborhood filled with playmates his age who shared his same interests in pick-up sports games, riding bikes, and exploring. Of course, there were times he missed the familiar things—his best buddy, sledding in the winter, the big cedar playscape in the backyard, hot chocolate on a snowy deck, and his favorite places in town. Secure and steady as he was, though, Rob and I were amazed at how fast those things became distant memories. He dove into second grade with confidence, and we only saw an occasional tinge of homesickness that came when things didn’t work out so smoothly in his new life. His kind heart, sense of humor, and calm demeanor made him a solid friend among his new buddies and instantly part of the group.
Meredith, on the other hand, hated our new life and everything about it. Change had always been hard for her, and she grew up needing time built into her day to ease the many inevitable transitions of childhood. So, moving to a whole new part of the country and finding friends was tougher for her than it was for Nicholas. At first, we had many long discussions around the kitchen table, punctuated by tears, and Rob and I often wondered if we would ever get our sunny and sweet girl back. She has always been smart with a defined sense of right and wrong. Her strong spirit, incredible curiosity, and sense of adventure were infectious. At home, she would be up for anything and light up the room—but outside, her world was filled with teenage judgment and insecurity. Her first few years in Atlanta were hard, and it was painful to watch, knowing she was unhappy.
From my perspective, I felt extraordinarily lucky to be a partner in a consulting firm that allowed me to take my work with me, especially as digital communication was rapidly expanding. When I told my partner about my plans for the move, he also pointed out that Atlanta was one of the country’s most convenient hubs for business travelers. He predicted that, like Rob, I soon would be developing new clients for our firm. Rather than any anxiety about the move, I felt as if I had won the lottery. As the years went on, all of those assumptions proved to be true. Our company’s bottom line grew substantially and we considered bringing another partner on board. Aside from some occasional trips, I was able to work from home at a time when my children needed consistency and a parental presence.
This brings me back to that initial trip to Mongin Island on our first spring break after moving to Atlanta. New to the South, we wanted to explore some of the wonders around us and considered several of the many options the region presented. But Rob and I wanted a place where the kids could freely run around and we all could enjoy family adventures without crowds or long lines. Then, I took a one-day business trip to Savannah and, on a coffee table in the client’s lobby, I saw a photo taken just as dawn was breaking along an Atlantic shore with an old lighthouse in near silhouette, outlined by streaks of pre-dawn gold and salmon. An empty beach filled with powdery sand was in the foreground.
I picked up the magazine, a regional quarterly called South Carolina Shores, and there was Mongin in all its glory. The story was headlined “Dawn Wakes Up a Sleepy Southern Gem.” It was all about how the nation’s booming real estate market had hit little Mongin Island and featured a full-page photo of a gloriously oak-lined road, plus splashy photos of the recently expanded resort that featured a sixty-room inn and details of the plan to merge “a timeless history of hospitality with modern amenities.” There was even a photo of an oak-and-glass case housed in the island’s lighthouse museum. In the case, I could see some old bottles, clay cookware, and a spectacular looking dinner plate believed to be dated to the 1700s. “This island is so steeped in history, you just have to set foot on our miles of beautiful shoreline to start your own adventure,” the writer boasted.
My mind was racing. I could picture our kids running along that shoreline.
“How about some beachcombing on an island in the Atlantic?” That was all I said at dinner the following evening before unfolding the magazine I had swiped from my client’s lobby. I flipped the pages silently. Nicholas saw that final photo of the shiny treasures in the museum’s display case and, suddenly, all four of us were eagerly awaiting a week on Mongin.
Within days, the computer in our family room was full of bookmarked links to Mongin and that part of the Atlantic coast. We all found images we loved: beautiful beaches, marshes with tall beach grasses, palm trees, and a historic mansion converted to a hotel called the Rosemont Inn. We were ready! Rob and I reserved spots in a few planned activities each day from the resort’s listed amenities, but we kept those from the children, thinking they would enjoy a new surprise each day. This truly would be an adventure of a lifetime. We stuffed the car with suitcases, beach toys, games and golf clubs—and we were off!
We trudged along. As the stops for traffic, food, and breaks piled up, we began to worry about making our reservation on the ferry to the island. Our grand adventure started a little rocky. Tempers frayed. We were hot and tired—and not at all in vacation mode when we pulled into the Mongin Island embarkation station on the tip of South Carolina. With only a few moments to spare, we raced to make the ferry. When we finally stood on the deck, Rob looked at me over the heads of the children and I could tell we were sharing the same thought at that minute: “Maybe now is when our grand adventure begins.”
While living in New England, we had many previous ferry rides from Hyannis to Nantucket and always said our vacation began when our feet left the dock. On those ferries, three hours of salty sprays on your lips and skin and warm sun on your head made it easy to get lulled into a vacation mindset. This ferry to Mongin, however, was fast. It seemed we barely got settled before we spotted some dolphins racing along with our boat and Mongin Island in our sight line. I hadn’t had enough ferry time to fully unwind from the hectic afternoon race toward the docks. Vacation still seemed to elude me.
We moved quickly with the other passengers to the green and white restored trolley waiting for us at the end of the dock. While the bell captains secured all our suitcases and supplies, we boarded and were transported to the resort. I sat on this trolley, thinking about the day we already had—loading the car, the long ride to the ferry, the boat ride, and now this trolley trip, and marveled at how well the kids had both handled it all so far. Something positive was in the air. As we meandered down the main island road, ever so slowly I began to start relaxing the grip I had on my bags and my shoulders started to slide back into their normal position. The air was heavy with humidity, but the palm fronds waved gently as the breeze cooled us down and before I knew it, we were entering the main gate of the resort.
As the trolley turned left into the resort driveway, I realized, in the most unexpected way, that I was home. This place, this magical and mysterious place, was what I had unknowingly been looking for all my life. Through all the places I traveled, I never had experienced any sensation like this. Having never been to this region, all the sights, sounds, and smells were new. It was like having all my senses electrically charged while concurrently feeling like this was the very place I was always meant to be. I was just finding it now for the very first time at thirty-nine years old.
From this point on, we described our life as before Mongin Island, or after Mongin Island.
The stately Rosemont Inn welcomed us with southern hospitality. Seeing its grandeur rise from the lush grounds was breathtaking. The huge front porch ran almost the length of the building and white rockers strategically placed there invited us to enter the large solid oak front door. The Inn was the former mansion of wealthy plantation owners who lived on Mongin Island more than one hundred years ago. Cotton, indigo, and oysters were the main assets the land and the sea produced. The last family descendants sold this property to a boutique hospitality company about ten years before we first visited. They transformed the 400-acre property into a thriving resort, complete with golf, tennis, horseback riding, a spa, and fitness activities. They also added two wings of guest rooms and structurally made changes that accommodated large crowds while keeping the magnificent main rooms and elegant curved grand staircases as the heart of this home.
The week was wonderful. Each day, the island’s enchantment grew and grew until, one morning, Rob and I walked into the resort’s real estate office and asked to see a yellow house for sale on Captain Madison Lane. The decision was made before we even got through the whole tour. This house was our perfect paradise home. We were under contract before we arrived back in Atlanta.
Over the years, we enjoyed many other just-as-wonderful vacations at our Mongin home, which we dubbed La Vida Pacifica, or “peaceful life.” We met our neighbors and were often introduced to visitors, but we did not spend enough consistent time on the island to form deep friendships. That was all supposed to happen when Rob and I moved here full-time together.
So, there I was, alone on this ferry, hoping that Mongin Island still held some magic for me after the trauma of Rob’s death. Somehow, I hoped, I might still find a peaceful life.
I braced myself for the little jolt when the ferry bumped the dock. Ropes were thrown. The ramp boomed into place. And finally, my feet touched the dock. I only had a couple of bags to lug along with me. The moving van I had hired to haul some essential furniture and boxes was on its way to the barge dock and would arrive at La Vida Pacifica tomorrow.
I looked up at the sky and I could feel Rob cheering me on. These days, all decisions—from simply choosing a cup for coffee to packing my suitcases—were hard. All day long, month after month, nothing had felt right—until this moment.
I was surprised to hear my own voice. I just couldn’t help but say it out loud: “I’m home.”