We live as if we were always on our way to something. The next meeting, the next paycheck, the next vacation, the next achievement. Even behind the wheel, there seems to be an inexplicable urgency to arrive a few minutes early. We get so focused on the finish line that we often turn the journey into a mere interval to be defeated.
Perhaps an important part of life lies precisely in what happens during that interval.
Think of a street you drive down almost every day. You know the traffic lights, the corners, the spot where traffic usually slows down. You know where to change lanes, where it's busiest, how much time is left until you arrive.
Everything is so familiar that the scenery stops catching your eye.
Until, one morning, the light turns red and you look to the side.
The small neighborhood park looks different. It has been renovated. There are kids running around the playground equipment, a mother pushing a swing, someone walking a dog. A man is playing catch with his son on the grass. Further ahead, the sun spreads across the surface of a small pond and a few birds move among the branches.
Perhaps almost all of that was already there yesterday.
You were just the one who drove past without really noticing.
Your car was on that street, but your head was already at the meeting, the piled-up work, the message you needed to answer, the problem that hadn't even happened yet.
This happens more often than we realize.
We are at home, but thinking about work.
We are at dinner, but looking at our phones.
We are on a walk, but worried about what we'll do when we get back.
We are next to someone we love, but with our attention occupied by something that will only come later.
With children, this can carry even more weight.
It is natural to think about their future. We want a good school, good choices, security, opportunities. We worry about studies, careers, friendships, money, the world they will find when they grow up.
All of this is also a form of love.
But there is a paradox in this: while we try to prepare our children's future, they keep living their childhood and adolescence right in front of us.
A child appears at the door:
— Can we go to the park?
It's the park two blocks from home. Nothing special. They want to bring their bike, kick a ball around, or just run while you sit on that same old bench.
You look at the computer.
— Not today. I'm tired. We'll go tomorrow.
Days later, they come home from school excited.
There’s going to be a play in the little theater. They’ve been rehearsing for weeks. Maybe they have few lines. Maybe they’ll only be on stage for a few minutes.
— Are you coming to watch?
To an adult, it might just seem like a school play.
To them, it might be one of the most important events of that week.
The lights go out. The curtain opens. They step onto the stage and, even before starting, their eyes quickly scan the seats.
They aren't looking for the audience.
They are looking for you.
On another Saturday, there's the school team's game. Parents arrive with coffee in hand, chat in the bleachers, check their watches. On the field or court, before the match starts, your child quietly searches among the faces.
Until they find yours.
Maybe no adult around notices.
But for that child, there was a simple and powerful confirmation:
“He came to see me.”
In developmental psychology, the importance of these small responses of attention has been studied for decades. The bond between parents and children is not built only in major events. It is also formed in small interactions. So much is built in the everyday.
In the drawing placed before us while we make dinner.
In the school story told inside the car.
In the movie they want to watch with us.
It is also in this everyday life that modern distraction shows up.
The phone vibrates during dinner.
A child starts telling a story about something that happened at school.
We quickly glance at the screen.
— Go on. I'm listening.
Maybe we are listening.
But our eyes just said something else.
None of these moments, in isolation, seem serious.
That is precisely the problem.
Tomorrow we can go to the park.
Next month there will be another game.
At the next presentation, we'll be there.
Then we'll watch the movie.
Then we'll talk.
Later.
Except childhood doesn't work like our calendar.
It cannot be rescheduled for the following week.
One day, the bike becomes too small.
The swing stops being interesting.
The team uniform no longer fits.
The teenager starts going out with friends and no longer asks if you want to accompany them to the park.
That child who used to walk into your bedroom to ask you to watch a movie starts closing the door to watch it alone.
And that doesn't mean something went wrong.
It just means they grew up.
Perhaps one of the hardest things to understand about time is this: some experiences happen for the very last time without us knowing that it's the last time.
The last time a child asks you to push the swing.
The last time they hold your hand to cross the street.
The last time they ask to be picked up because they're tired.
The last time they run to show you a drawing.
The last time they ask:
— Do you want to watch a movie with me?
No voice announces this moment.
No clock stops.
It's just another ordinary afternoon.
Perhaps that's why so many memories that move us are made of such small things.
A child sleeping in the back seat of the car.
A sneaker left in the hallway.
A conversation in the kitchen.
A drawing stuck to the fridge.
A Sunday lunch.
A small hand inside ours.
The everyday feels ordinary while it's happening.
Later, it turns into memory.
In traffic, our relationship with hurry shows up in another way.
A driver pulls up too close behind. Changes lanes, speeds up, tries to pass. In a few seconds, we feel irritation set in. We grip the steering wheel. Maybe we speed up too.
As if those few yards meant something.
But there is another choice.
We can simply let them pass.
There is an ancient idea, present in Stoicism, that remains surprisingly relevant: a large part of our peace of mind depends on recognizing what we can control and what we cannot.
We cannot control the hurry of the driver behind us.
We can control whether we engage in the dispute.
Letting them pass doesn't mean accepting their recklessness.
It just means not handing over a few minutes of our peace to someone we may never see again.
Perhaps, two miles down the road, both cars stop at the same red light.
He keeps looking impatiently at the traffic light.
You look out the window.
On the sidewalk, a child holds a father's hand.
A couple chats in front of a coffee shop.
A woman crosses the street carrying flowers.
The wind moves the leaves of a tree.
Nothing extraordinary.
And yet, that is exactly what life is made of.
We tend to imagine happiness as something we will find further down the road.
When we get that job.
When we finish paying off the house.
When we take that trip.
When the kids are settled.
When we have more money.
When we finally retire.
When we finally have time.
But perhaps that perfect moment never arrives.
There will always be a worry, a task, a bill, a meeting scheduled for the next day.
While we wait for the ideal life, there is a real life happening.
The smell of coffee in the morning.
Someone you love walking into the kitchen.
A conversation inside the car.
The sun cutting through the trees.
The sound of children in the other room.
A walk to the park.
We don't need to abandon plans or stop thinking about the future.
We just need to remember that the future cannot have all our attention.
Perhaps, every now and then, we need to slow down.
Put the phone away.
Stay at the table a few minutes longer.
Go to the park.
Sit in the bleachers.
Watch the play.
Accept the invitation to that movie.
Look out the window.
Because there is a chance that this ordinary day, which we are trying to rush through to get to the next one, is precisely one of those days we will miss.
Life doesn't happen when we finally arrive.
It happens while we are on our way.