I went to the Virginia Beach aquarium today.

It’s not the most impressive one I’ve ever seen, but it has its moments. The marsh walk is peaceful. The layout flows okay. The shark tank is the kind that makes you stop for a while.

My nieces are in South Dakota. All three of them—12 months, 4, and 7. I miss them. A lot.

They’ve never been to a real aquarium. Just the little ones attached to zoos—small tanks, maybe a touch pool, a few turtles if you’re lucky. Not like this. Not with massive walls of glass and sharks sliding past like shadows from another time.

I kept thinking how much they’d love it.
How much I wish I could bring them here.

But I also realized I needed to be here alone.

I love being their aunt. I love answering a million questions, pointing things out, helping them see the world. But today, I needed to see it for myself. Not through their excitement. Not through their voices. Just… for me.

There was this moment at the shark tank.
It was dim and quiet, the water dark and full of slow motion. A shark drifted by, huge and calm, with light trailing down its back like silver. Schools of fish moved like constellations.

And for a little while, no one asked anything of me.
I didn’t have to hold anyone’s hand.
I didn’t have to read signs out loud or carry a bag or answer “why.”
I just stood there.

And it hit me—
How long it’s been since I’ve stood in front of something beautiful
and not had to explain it.

It wasn’t loud awe. It wasn’t big joy.
It was something quieter. Something slower.
Something I didn’t know I missed.

I think adults forget we still need wonder too.

We build experiences for kids—and that’s good. I’m not saying we shouldn’t. I want my nieces to grow up swimming in awe. But I think somewhere along the way, we start handing wonder off to the next generation like it’s no longer ours to hold.

But it is.

We still need to feel small in the best way.
We still need to be silenced by beauty.
We still need to stand in front of the deep blue and let it hush us.

Even if the moment only lasts a few minutes—before the noise returns,
before the yelling kid,
before the glass gets slapped and the magic slips away.

It’s still worth it.
It still matters.

Today reminded me I’m not just someone who gives wonder.
I’m someone who needs it too.

And honestly?
The sharks deserve reverence.
The turtles deserve peace.
And so do we.