A collection, a passion, a way of traveling.

It started simply enough: a jar for shells, a little bag for sand. But somewhere along the way, it became something more — a map of the world made of the things the ocean leaves behind. Today that collection stretches across coastlines I never expected to fall in love with, and a few I always knew I would.

Where the sand has taken me

Ireland surprised me more than any other stop. I went for the green hills and the history — I did not expect to fall into a full-blown surf culture, wetsuits and all, tucked along beaches I assumed would be all wind and stone. Ireland taught me that the best beach finds are the ones you never saw coming.

Scotland and England turned into a treasure hunt I hadn't planned for. Alongside the sand, I found sea glass worn smooth by decades of tide, and bits of old pottery — tiny fragments of someone else's history washed up on someone else's shore. Those are some of my favorite pieces, because they weren't the point of the trip. They were the bonus.

Iceland is the moodiest jar in the collection — black sand from Reynisfjara, hauled home in a coat pocket while the wind did its best to change my mind. Not every beach is warm. Some of the best ones aren't.

The Middle East holds a special place in the collection — sand gifted to me by a dear friend, carried across a distance I haven't traveled myself yet. It's a reminder that this collection isn't only built by my own footprints; it's built by the people who think of me when they're standing on a shore of their own.

California, up and down the coast, gave me variety within variety — no two jars from the same state look alike.

Maryland brought the Chesapeake into it — sand and oyster shells that smell like a different kind of coastal life, one built on bay water instead of open ocean.

The Gulf Coast and Florida's east coast, along with the Texas Gulf, rounded things out with that unmistakable soft, sugar-white character that Gulf sand is known for — each one a little different depending on exactly where I stood.

Jamaica, Belize, and the Bahamas added the Caribbean to the jars — sand so fine and water so turquoise it almost doesn't look real, though I promise you it is. Three different countries, three different shades of that same impossible blue, and three more proofs that no two beaches ever truly feel the same.

Why I collect

People ask me why sand — of all things — and the answer is simple: it's proof. Proof I was there, proof the trip was real, proof that somewhere in the world there's a beach that felt like mine for an afternoon. A photograph shows you what a place looked like. A jar of sand lets you touch it again, years later, whenever you need to.

Beaches are my thing

This collection isn't a side hobby to my travel planning — it's the reason for it. I don't just plan beach vacations for people; I plan them like someone who has stood on dozens of shorelines herself, who knows that the best coastal trip isn't always the one with the "best" beach on paper. Sometimes it's the unexpected surf town in Ireland. Sometimes it's the quiet bay in Maryland. Sometimes it's the friend who thought of you from a shore on the other side of the world.

If beaches are your thing too, I'd love to help plan your next one — wherever that shoreline turns out to be.