I often get asked how we manage family adventures with kids of different ages, needs, and personalities. The truth is, it takes a lot of planning, patience, and flexibility. But it also takes something even more important: the way each of my kids brings their own unique strengths, quirks, and hearts into our time outdoors.
I wanted to share a little about how each of them experiences the world when we’re out in nature, and how, together, they make it possible for us to keep exploring.
Raeleigh (15)
Raeleigh, my 15-year-old daughter, stands outdoors in the forest wearing her favorite black and neon-green Invader Zim hoodie. She’s smiling slightly and tipping the brim of her Rick and Morty cap, which has a small teal headlamp clipped to it. Her hoodie sleeve shows the words “Doom doom doom.” Confident and playful—just like her.
Raeleigh’s the one people always say is “so mature for her age” or “such a good big sister.” And she is; but not because she’s eager to grow up. It’s because she knows what it’s like to be needed.
When we’re out in nature, Raeleigh stays tuned in to when Royce might need her. She helps me when I’m struggling. She watches her little brother so I can navigate rough terrain or conserve my energy. And she knows when to simply hold the baby and let the rest of us catch up.
She does complain occasionally, but it’s rare. She’s happy to help so we can keep going on these nature adventures. And she still finds time to splash in the water, climb rocks, or sit barefoot in the grass, just being. I love that she’s still a kid in those moments, even while playing such a big role in holding things together. She’s my steady presence and my reminder that growing up doesn’t mean leaving wonder behind.
Channing (11)
Channing, 11, leans against a tree outdoors, wearing a red and navy jacket, dark jeans, and a Chicago White Sox T-shirt and cap. He smiles softly amid fallen autumn leaves
Channing feels the world differently. He experiences sound, texture, and energy in ways most people don’t even notice. And yet, he walks into every park, every trail, every lake with this tender, curious courage.
He brings his noise-canceling headphones, his sensory-friendly water shoes, and his full heart. He’s learning how to prepare for what might overwhelm him, and in time, that will grow into someone who sees and supports those needs in others.
Channing thinks he knows more than he does, and he’s especially fascinated by chopping up sticks with his hatchet and carving them with his pocket knife. It’s his way of exploring and feeling capable; even if sometimes he needs reminders about safety and technique.
When I’m maxed out from the heat, the noise, or just the exhaustion of navigating the day, Channing comes in close. He wraps me in a soft hug and says: “Thank you for bringing us here. I love you, Mimi.” Sometimes, that’s all I need to reset. My boy with the sweet heart for his Mimi and Mama, and the spark of mischief that keeps us laughing.
Royce (1½)
Royce, my 1½-year-old son, sits in a black camping chair at the campground. He’s wearing a bright blue fleece jacket, blue jeans, and Crocs. He’s holding a graham cracker in one hand and looking off to the side with a curious, playful expression.
Our youngest explorer is the wild card; the unpredictable spark in every adventure.
He’s not old enough to understand rules or safety, but he’s endlessly curious, so we meet him where he’s at. He wears his little backpack harness so he can move freely without wandering into danger. And move he does. Constantly. Through sand, over grass, into puddles, toward birds, and away from sunscreen.
He doesn’t care about the view or the destination. He cares about the experience. He wants to touch the water, throw the rock, eat the dandelion crown his sister made him, and hear us laugh. Every outing is a full-body sensory dive for him, and each tiny adventure feels brand new.
He reminds me what it means to be fully present, to see the world as fascinating and worth exploring, no matter how small the details. He’s chaos and pure joy wrapped into one.
Sylas (15)
Sylas, 15, sits on a brick ledge wearing a black hoodie, gray sweatpants, and a black baseball cap.
His hands are clasped in front of him, and he has a calm, serious expression. A skateboard rests on the ground below his feet.
My nephew, but really, he’s just one of ours. Sylas is a quiet force. He helps in a way that doesn’t draw attention: hauling the cooler, pushing the wheelchair, carrying the baby when my arms are done. He’s the kind of teen you don’t have to ask twice, you ask, he says “okay,” and it’s done.
But he’s also goofy in this dry, sarcastic way. He makes the baby laugh until he squeals. He skates and flips his board like he’s training for a competition. He makes Rae roll her eyes. He even reminds her to stop talking when she starts to argue; one line, delivered dry as dust, and sometimes she even actually listens.
He’s dependable, funny, and just the kind of person you’re grateful to have along. Sylas makes the whole outing easier simply by being willing, and he’s a steady thread holding us together when the day gets long.
Together, They Make This Possible
When people see us at the lake or out on a trail, they might just see a family with kids. They don’t always see the layers of the teamwork, the quiet planning, the accommodations, the sensory gear, the backup meds, or the fatigue hidden behind sunglasses.
But that’s okay. Because I see it.
I see how each of them experiences the world differently, and how they make space for me to rest and reset. I see how nature gives them something school or screens never could: connection. With each other, with their bodies, with the earth. And with me.
This isn’t always easy. In fact, it rarely is. But it’s worth it; because out there, in the woods or the water or the open sky, we become more us. Not in spite of our needs, but right alongside them.
❤️🌿 Mimi
Midwest Mimi 