Long road trips with kids can be hard. Our family practices acts of kindness along the way to break up the drive.
Family road trips can be hard. I wanted something to make them more meaningful for my family.
Now we embark on a 'Kindness Quest' whenever we travel, aimed at spreading positivity.
Our quests involve leaving encouraging notes and gifts for strangers along the way.
We were somewhere between a dusty diner's parking lot and an old ghost town when I started passing my bright list of ideas around the backseat. "Everyone choose something you want to do! Our first act of kindness is coming up!" I gleefully said.
My family of five was on what we affectionately refer to as a "Kindness Quest." It was our second such trip and my minivan made our mission loudly obvious. #KindnessQuest and slogans like " Kindness is Cool!" were scrawled across the windows with paint pens. Our rainbow mascot was perched in the front seat. The kids were now passing around a flamingo notepad and writing out what we called "encouragements." We would leave notes with encouraging words such as, "Never forget how awesome you are!" or "In case no one told you recently, you're important!" on a few cars and public boards while we explored.
We were on a mission — and we've been on several since then.
Road trips with kids can be hard
I'd always loved road trips, but it wasn't until a cross-country move that I realized how much I enjoyed unhurriedly exploring the United States with my kids.
But, as anyone who has been trapped with children in a moving vehicle for an extended period of time knows — it's hard work. I often switched into survival mode as we traveled, keeping them happy with snacks and movies. But even then, I felt frustrated. Something was missing. Our road trips needed something to bring us together.
I yearned for something more for us
There's a familiar tension many families feel: How do we raise children of compassion? How do we lead kids to care? I knew I wanted to model something different for our family with presence, intentionality, and social awareness at the core.
What would it look like to take those values on the road? My sister-like housemate joined my brainstorming and the "Kindness Quest" was born. Answering these questions became our roadmap as we took to the road.
We started big
The first summer, we went all out — driving from Mexico to Vancouver and back. We tie-dyed shirts. We packed a large box full of supplies, like candy and markers, to help us practice kindness along the way. And we started the trip by knighting the kids with foam swords and encouraging them live out missions of compassion.
But doing acts of kindness on the road was more challenging than I expected. Sometimes it took extra perseverance that could led to time away from what we wanted to be doing. Some of our handmade PB&Js and balloons with messages of encouragement scrawled across them were rejected by our chosen recipients. My kids had meltdowns. Sometimes we got upset with each other and had to learn how to forgive.
Despite some setbacks, the quest bonded us through laughter, wonder, and a boatload of joyful memories. Through these acts of kindness — whether passing out donuts or asking a stranger for advice in exchange for a flower — my kids grew in both confidence and resilience.
We've also learned to question our motives along the way. Are we being ethical? Are we virtue-signaling? These quests have sparked real discussions about how to come alongside people in need, rather than assuming we know what's best.
Our mission has evolved, but our goals remain the same
Over the past seven years, our expectations for the quests have shifted. The kids have grown, a baby was added to the mix, and some health issues have complicated things. But this tradition has shaped my family. Ultimately, we've all learned to notice and love people better.
When I think back to one of our early travel days, I remember noticing something on our own windshield when we returned to the car one afternoon. It was a napkin, transformed into a note of encouragement for us. It told us to keep the kindness going. And this summer we're trying again.
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Long road trips with kids can be hard. Our family practices acts of kindness along the way to break up the drive.
Family road trips can be hard. I wanted something to make them more meaningful for my family. Now we embark on a 'Kindness Quest' whenever we travel, aimed at spreading positivity. Our quests involve leaving encouraging notes and gifts for strangers along the way. We were somewhere between a dusty diner's parking lot and an old ghost town when I started passing my bright list of ideas around the backseat. "Everyone choose something you want to do! Our first act of kindness is coming up!" I gleefully said. My family of five was on what we affectionately refer to as a "Kindness Quest." It was our second such trip and my minivan made our mission loudly obvious. #KindnessQuest and slogans like "Kindness is Cool!" were scrawled across the windows with paint pens. Our rainbow mascot was perched in the front seat. The kids were now passing around a flamingo notepad and writing out what we called "encouragements." We would leave notes with encouraging words such as, "Never forget how awesome you are!" or "In case no one told you recently, you're important!" on a few cars and public boards while we explored. We were on a mission — and we've been on several since then. I'd always loved road trips, but it wasn't until a cross-country move that I realized how much I enjoyed unhurriedly exploring the United States with my kids. But, as anyone who has been trapped with children in a moving vehicle for an extended period of time knows — it's hard work. I often switched into survival mode as we traveled, keeping them happy with snacks and movies. But even then, I felt frustrated. Something was missing. Our road trips needed something to bring us together. There's a familiar tension many families feel: How do we raise children of compassion? How do we lead kids to care? I knew I wanted to model something different for our family with presence, intentionality, and social awareness at the core. What would it look like to take those values on the road? My sister-like housemate joined my brainstorming and the "Kindness Quest" was born. Answering these questions became our roadmap as we took to the road. The first summer, we went all out — driving from Mexico to Vancouver and back. We tie-dyed shirts. We packed a large box full of supplies, like candy and markers, to help us practice kindness along the way. And we started the trip by knighting the kids with foam swords and encouraging them live out missions of compassion. But doing acts of kindness on the road was more challenging than I expected. Sometimes it took extra perseverance that could led to time away from what we wanted to be doing. Some of our handmade PB&Js and balloons with messages of encouragement scrawled across them were rejected by our chosen recipients. My kids had meltdowns. Sometimes we got upset with each other and had to learn how to forgive. Despite some setbacks, the quest bonded us through laughter, wonder, and a boatload of joyful memories. Through these acts of kindness — whether passing out donuts or asking a stranger for advice in exchange for a flower — my kids grew in both confidence and resilience. We've also learned to question our motives along the way. Are we being ethical? Are we virtue-signaling? These quests have sparked real discussions about how to come alongside people in need, rather than assuming we know what's best. Over the past seven years, our expectations for the quests have shifted. The kids have grown, a baby was added to the mix, and some health issues have complicated things. But this tradition has shaped my family. Ultimately, we've all learned to notice and love people better. When I think back to one of our early travel days, I remember noticing something on our own windshield when we returned to the car one afternoon. It was a napkin, transformed into a note of encouragement for us. It told us to keep the kindness going. And this summer we're trying again. Read the original article on Business Insider
Business Insider
a day ago
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Long road trips with kids can be hard. Our family practices acts of kindness along the way to break up the drive.
Family road trips can be hard. I wanted something to make them more meaningful for my family. Now we embark on a 'Kindness Quest' whenever we travel, aimed at spreading positivity. Our quests involve leaving encouraging notes and gifts for strangers along the way. We were somewhere between a dusty diner's parking lot and an old ghost town when I started passing my bright list of ideas around the backseat. "Everyone choose something you want to do! Our first act of kindness is coming up!" I gleefully said. My family of five was on what we affectionately refer to as a "Kindness Quest." It was our second such trip and my minivan made our mission loudly obvious. #KindnessQuest and slogans like " Kindness is Cool!" were scrawled across the windows with paint pens. Our rainbow mascot was perched in the front seat. The kids were now passing around a flamingo notepad and writing out what we called "encouragements." We would leave notes with encouraging words such as, "Never forget how awesome you are!" or "In case no one told you recently, you're important!" on a few cars and public boards while we explored. We were on a mission — and we've been on several since then. Road trips with kids can be hard I'd always loved road trips, but it wasn't until a cross-country move that I realized how much I enjoyed unhurriedly exploring the United States with my kids. But, as anyone who has been trapped with children in a moving vehicle for an extended period of time knows — it's hard work. I often switched into survival mode as we traveled, keeping them happy with snacks and movies. But even then, I felt frustrated. Something was missing. Our road trips needed something to bring us together. I yearned for something more for us There's a familiar tension many families feel: How do we raise children of compassion? How do we lead kids to care? I knew I wanted to model something different for our family with presence, intentionality, and social awareness at the core. What would it look like to take those values on the road? My sister-like housemate joined my brainstorming and the "Kindness Quest" was born. Answering these questions became our roadmap as we took to the road. We started big The first summer, we went all out — driving from Mexico to Vancouver and back. We tie-dyed shirts. We packed a large box full of supplies, like candy and markers, to help us practice kindness along the way. And we started the trip by knighting the kids with foam swords and encouraging them live out missions of compassion. But doing acts of kindness on the road was more challenging than I expected. Sometimes it took extra perseverance that could led to time away from what we wanted to be doing. Some of our handmade PB&Js and balloons with messages of encouragement scrawled across them were rejected by our chosen recipients. My kids had meltdowns. Sometimes we got upset with each other and had to learn how to forgive. Despite some setbacks, the quest bonded us through laughter, wonder, and a boatload of joyful memories. Through these acts of kindness — whether passing out donuts or asking a stranger for advice in exchange for a flower — my kids grew in both confidence and resilience. We've also learned to question our motives along the way. Are we being ethical? Are we virtue-signaling? These quests have sparked real discussions about how to come alongside people in need, rather than assuming we know what's best. Our mission has evolved, but our goals remain the same Over the past seven years, our expectations for the quests have shifted. The kids have grown, a baby was added to the mix, and some health issues have complicated things. But this tradition has shaped my family. Ultimately, we've all learned to notice and love people better. When I think back to one of our early travel days, I remember noticing something on our own windshield when we returned to the car one afternoon. It was a napkin, transformed into a note of encouragement for us. It told us to keep the kindness going. And this summer we're trying again.
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I Left My Job in Food Media to Bake at an Alaskan Wilderness Lodge
This time last year, I was living in New York City, working what I'd once considered to be my dream job as a food writer at a major publication. Each day I commuted 30 minutes underground to a big, shiny glass tower, sat at a desk, and wrote about pancakes. It was a pretty good existence, but after six months, the dream job started to feel like any other job. I liked New York enough, but I found myself complaining constantly about the lack of trees; I fantasized about the months I'd spent working at a remote bakery in the jungles of Maui, a job I left to come to the East Coast. Still, I counted myself lucky to be making it work in the city, to have the security and stability that — making comparatively meager wages as a baker — I'd so desperately craved. Then, a few weeks shy of my one-year work anniversary, I discovered that I was on a list of employees the publisher planned to lay off. I took it as a sign to finally listen to the voice inside me that had increasingly demanded I get out of the city. My friend Max, a skilled cook who worked seasonal stints in kitchens from Germany to Antarctica, referred me to Camp Denali, a family-owned, off-grid wilderness lodge in Denali National Park, Alaska, where I was hired as a baker for the summer. I bought a pair of hiking pants, packed a summer's worth of underwear into a duffel, and hightailed it to Alaska. I was no stranger to transient, seasonal work from my days in Hawai'i, but I didn't quite comprehend the magnitude of the adventure I'd undertaken until I was flying into a remote corner of the park on a tiny Cessna. The plane was the only way in or out for staff, guests, and supplies for the lodge. In 2021, a landslide rendered a section of the road through the national park impassable — to cars at least; it was still plenty popular with bears, moose, and ground squirrels. I spent the next three and a half months living, working, and baking in the shadow of North America's highest peak, one of just a few dozen humans on six million acres of unoccupied land. In the kitchen we prepared as much as possible from scratch, often using ingredients grown in our greenhouse or the surrounding tundra. Alaska's long daylight hours made for a short, but prolific growing season; the midnight sun was ideal for cold-weather perennials like rhubarb, which I baked into galettes topped with fresh whipped cream and marigold petals. Come August, wild blueberries dotted the tundra as far as the eye could see; I stewed them into jam for our signature PB&Js and baked them into fresh blueberry scones along with sugar infused with lavender we grew and dried ourselves. The long summer days, which offer up to 14 hours of daylight, enabled me to spend my post-work hours outside — swimming at the creek, canoeing across the lake, and hiking in the backcountry. I'd never been backcountry hiking and soon learned that there were no trails to follow; you just walked, with no particular goal other than to experience the landscape around you. In New York City, I walked with my head down, attempting to block out the endless deluge of noise. Here I watched in awe as my coworkers — many of whom were skilled naturalists — stopped in their tracks, transfixed by the call of a bird. I was more preoccupied with the plants, specifically the ones I could eat. With my colleagues' help, I learned to identify the food growing on the tundra all around us: the flowering fireweed that tasted like honey, the tart red currants I'd pop like candy, the Labrador tea we brewed to soothe sore throats. In New York, it was easy to fall out of touch with the machinations that kept the city running. But in Alaska, operating a full-time bakery at an off-grid wilderness lodge, there was no choice but to notice the fragility of our existence. I became acutely aware of every resource essential to our operation: the propane fueling our ovens, the solar power keeping the lights on, the herbs and flowers we used in the evening's desserts. Any ingredients we couldn't grow ourselves had to be flown in and any food waste we couldn't convert to compost had to fly out. Come September, the lodge prepared to close for the cold, dark winter months, and I began to plot my next destination. Intent to enjoy my newly transient lifestyle, I returned to Maui for the winter, working as the pastry chef at a small cafe and learning to surf. Living in a more populated area, I fell back into the conveniences I once took for granted. I had air conditioning and cell phone service; I could drive to the grocery store down the block to buy ingredients. But yet again, presented with all the luxuries of modern life, I found myself missing a remote corner of the world where there was no central heating, where building fires in a wood stove was an evening ritual. Soon I'll be returning to Denali for another summer, this time in a new role as the lodge's executive chef. As I cemented my travel plans, I checked in on my former coworkers at the food magazine. They had just weathered yet another round of layoffs. I joked to them that running off to Alaska solved all my problems. Maybe everyone should consider it. Of course, living in the Alaskan backcountry isn't for everyone. But stepping out of the rhythms of modern life, even just for a few days, can be a great gift. This summer, I'll watch the pink alpenglow cast over the mountains, feel the fuzzy moss beneath my feet, and taste a truly tart wild blueberry, so unlike those you'll find at any grocery store. You don't have to go to Alaska to slow down and really observe the world around you, but what a beautiful place to behold. Zoe Denenberg is a traveling cook, baker, and food writer. She is the executive chef at Camp Denali, a remote wilderness lodge in Denali National Park, Alaska. Dispatches from the Eater staff about the world's culinary destinations worth planning an entire trip around
