Last month, my husband and I escaped the Northeast in the middle of a snowstorm—one of those “why do we live here again?” kind of storms—and boarded a cruise to the Bahamas. 

Some sun. A bit more warmth. No shovels. We already felt victorious.

Now here’s the twist: on a whim, I placed a little bid to upgrade us to the Yacht Club—the very top of the ship. The epitome of cruise luxury.

And wouldn’t you know it? They accepted.

Suddenly, we were among 300 people perched high above the other 4,000 passengers, with our own private restaurant, private pool, and—yes—a butler.

A real one.

I’ll admit, I worried at first. Would we fit in? Were our clothes fancy enough? Would we look like we had accidentally wandered in from the buffet line?

My husband and I are regular, hard-working people. We compare prices. We reuse gift bags. We say things like, “Do we really need bottled water?”

But here’s what I discovered: whether you’re at the top of the ship or waiting in line for soft-serve ice cream, people are still just… people.

Some were lovely—kind, curious, and interesting.
Some were entitled and quick to complain about everything from Wi-Fi speed to cultural differences.
And some were simply wrapped up in their own little worlds.

In other words, it was exactly like real life.

Just with better towels.

The pampering, though? Oh my.

Our butler escorted us everywhere—even cutting lines for shows. (I was mortified. I wanted to hand out apology notes.)
The maître d’ created special meals around my dietary quirks.
The bartenders remembered our drinks and seemed personally invested in keeping me mildly tipsy at all times.
And our room was cleaned three times a day. Three. My house is lucky if it gets a weekly breeze-through.

Luxury at its finest.

But the most eye-opening moment of the trip didn’t happen in the dining room or by the pool.

It happened in a hot tub.

I found myself sitting with five younger adults. No problem—I can chat with anyone. But their conversation slowly made my heart sink. They were discussing song lyrics and “girls today” in ways that weren’t particularly flattering.

What surprised me most? Every one of them had daughters.

They noticed my expression and asked if they were upsetting me.

I said, “Well, I’m a former kindergarten teacher, and I write books for children—especially to empower girls. So yes… it makes me a little sad.”

One man laughed. “Well, I hope you don’t empower them too much.”

Then the conversation shifted to “pretty girls.”

I couldn’t help myself. I said, “Why do girls have to be ‘pretty’ at all? Why can’t they just be girls? Or better yet—just be people?”

They stared at me like I’d grown a second head.

And then, as a group, they turned their backs.

Now here’s the interesting part.

I didn’t feel embarrassed.

I didn’t feel small.

I felt clear.

All that luxury—the butler, the gourmet meals, the priority seating—suddenly felt secondary.

Because real luxury isn’t about being served.

It’s about having the courage to speak.

It’s about knowing what you believe.

It’s about raising girls who understand they are more than a label.

We went on that cruise craving sunshine and relaxation.

What I came home with was something better.

Clarity.

And maybe a little more spine to go with the sunshine.

—

So yes, I met many interesting people on vacation.

But the most important person I met?

Was the one sitting quietly in that hot tub… realizing exactly why she writes.

-Peni

P.S.  This experience shows one of the reasons why I write stories where children discover their courage early. Because the messages they hear matter.