A Thousand Mornings Forest School

Feeling outrageously grateful for this group of people who showed up at the beach yesterday to share food, play, and celebrate a beautiful year outdoors together.

This weekend was meant to be our yearly camping trip, but our site got canceled last minute. We rerouted to a chili and cornbread day at the beach — and then the forecast turned. Almost every year something wild and inconvenient happens on camping weekend, and when I saw the weather, I found myself frustrated, already bracing, already telling a story about how it would go.

And then, of course, it didn’t go that way at all.

We had an absolutely perfect day.

In retrospect, I’m grateful for that frustration— it reminded me how quickly we let expectations shape our experience before anything has even happened. How easily we forget to just meet what’s here.

Kids flying kites, tromping through sand, building driftwood houses, playing tag, digging in the mud with thrift store dump trucks, climbing trees, dancing in the rain. Grownups huddling together for warmth, passing around chili and cornbread, holding each other’s babies, talking about parenting, laughing, playing, staying.

Someone once described our program as love-based, and yesterday it was easy to see why.

We are resilient and flexible. We show up for each other. We are grounded in love and a genuine joy of being together, not even in spite of rain, but because of it. Because this— connection, joy, community— is something we can find anywhere, in any weather.

I’m grateful to live the lessons I share daily at forest school, and even more grateful to live them with this community. These families don’t just participate in the program. They are the program. They bring the flexibility, the warmth, the willingness to show up anyway. Yesterday reminded me on another level why I do this work, and who I get to do it with. I am so so grateful.

Raising kids who know every day is Earth Day 🌱

For a few precious sunny weeks each summer, we open forest school to the wider community.

Children can join us week-by-week for tree climbing, fort building, crafts, songs, water play, dance parties, and dirty toes under the eucalyptus and oaks.

If you’ve ever been curious about forest school—or just want your child to spend their summer outside with our beloved friends and teachers—this is your invitation!

Check the link in our bio for details and enrollment ☀️

Last week, one of our forest friends had a truly stunning blueberry muffin in his lunch. After drooling over it all morning, I asked his mom for the recipe at pick-up. She sent it to me as requested, but she also asked if she could just make some for me.

I fought against that familiar flutter of discomfort— the one that rises when someone extends themselves and the instinct is to deny care that seems too luxurious. I told her about my laundry list of food restrictions and she didn’t hesitate to assure me she could make it work. So I said yes.

And then, less than 24 hours later, a dozen gorgeous muffins appeared on my doorstep.

I nearly cried. Not because I needed muffins (though it turns out I really did), but because generosity like that— simple, unforced, freely offered— lands in a place deeper than hunger. It reminded me how small kindnesses can change the emotional temperature of an entire day, how gestures of love can FEED us, how deeply we can impact the lives of those around us in small ways.

And this sweet bit of love inspired a giveaway for our summer program.

Our 2026 summer camp runs June 8th–July 30th, Mondays–Thursdays, 8:30–12:30, for kiddos ages 3–6. This year I’m offering one free week of camp in exchange for one act of kindness.

It doesn’t have to be big; it has to be real.
Leave a painted rock on the sidewalk. Bake a perfect (or imperfect) muffin for a hungry soul. Write a letter. Call your mom and tell her why you love her. Share a good book with a friend. Just do something kind without prompting— anything that adds softness to the world.

To enter:
• Do your act of kindness anytime this week
• If you want to share it, tag me in your stories
• If you’d rather keep it quiet, send me a message or a photo
• Or simply tell me you did it— I believe you

Deadline:
Please send entries before Sunday, March 1st to be considered. Winner will be chosen at random.

If you win:
Choose one of our eight camp weeks.
The winner will be announced 3/1. Your chosen week must be selected by 3/2 so I can save your spot.

And of course, the gift IS transferable, because, duh, that would be so kind.

Here’s to the small gestures that ripple outward.

A lot of people commented on this picture, so I wanted to share a little more about it: an offering like this is completely typical at our school. It doesn’t fit the standard forest-school aesthetic. Plastic trolls with neon hair instead of all sticks and leaves and natural fibers?? Yes. Absolutely yes.

Did this picture make you smile? Do those rainbow-haired trolls having what appears to be a woodland community meeting tug at something in you? Does any tiny part of you want to dive in and start playing?

Probably. And that’s exactly the point. We’re here to touch the joy that’s inherent to childhood, to offer those quiet invitations to play and imagine. So much of that happens through nature… and sometimes it happens through Katie’s incredible childhood troll collection.

I’ll admit, sometimes it feels a little tender to stand in this truth. I’ve run into other forest schools I deeply admire while I’m fumbling down the trail with a heap of Magnatiles and dirty Hot Wheels. We don’t always look like the glossy woodland-minimalist version of this work. And while that occasionally pricks at me, what we are is genuine. What we are is joy-forward, child-led, delight-driven. And that, every time, I can get behind.

Perfection has never raised a child. Realness has. Realness is what holds us, what grows us, what teaches us how to love. And realness is what you’ll find here—bright plastic bits and all.

In the end, what matters isn’t purity—it’s presence. It’s kindness. It’s curiosity. It’s remembering that joy isn’t less real because it’s neon. And that sometimes the most sacred thing you can do is sit in the grass and play—truly play—with whatever silly bits of magic make you smile.

My heart is broken. Our world is in massive disarray—being steered by violence, fear, and intolerance.

I’ve long believed that I am only as safe, happy, healthy, and healed as the most disenfranchised person on the planet. We are all interconnected—one global ecosystem. Our energy affects one another. The violence we’re seeing touches everyone, regardless of where it’s targeted. We are all suffering. We are all withering right now.

At school, moment by moment, we talk with children about feelings. At circle time, I frequently ask: Is it okay to be mad? Is it okay to be cranky? Is it okay to be sad, to disagree, to have a hard time? And the answer is always, resoundingly, yes. The full spectrum of experience is allowed, invited. But we also clarify, constantly: what is not okay is to hurt others because we are in pain or fear. Our work in preschool is to recognize our feelings—our sometimes deeply conflicting needs—and find a way to share them, to honor them, and to meet them without harming anyone else.

And so I share these photos of children hugging and holding hands—tiny snapshots of peace in a world that feels so far from it.

More of the adults steering our world need to go back to preschool.

And here is where I land: my radical protest to current events is helping to raise humans who are anchored in love, self-awareness, tolerance, and kindness. This doesn’t mean abandoning our values, nor does it require sharing political or religious beliefs. It simply means orienting from love—returning to the basic soil of compassion, empathy, and shared humanity.

In a world unraveling, I choose to plant something different. I choose to grow children who know how to feel fully without causing harm. I choose to cultivate peace in the small sphere I can touch. Because if enough of us do that—tend our tiny corners with intention and courage—maybe the larger world can begin to heal too.

The cusp of the winter solstice,
masquerading as spring ☘️

Big thanks to our families (and their busy washing machines) for embracing peak mud season with us. All this joy is well worth the mess.

Forest amphitheater.

“ I am in the deep cold water and I’m not afraid of tadpoles anymore.” -E, age 3

Such a fun day making magical pumpkin slop, chasing squids, dancing, and digging. We even had a special spiderweb gratitude circle.

Plus a bonus picture of my own little forest witches who refuse to be anything but wild and woodland, wherever they go.🪾 🕷️ 🍃 ✨