Because once you lose it, you spend the next hour pretending to work while actually just rearranging sentences and questioning your life choices.

Then I saw my husband’s name pop up with a play button. It was a video of my daughter enjoying her new bounce house, complete with an inflated slide, basketball hoop, and water spraying in all directions.

Chaos. Joy. Zero calendar invites.

I lived in the north for almost three decades. Experiencing snow as a kid was pure bliss. Snow days were a rare and delicious treat. As an adult, needing to make it to the office in a full-on white-out was…dread.

Somewhere along the way, wonder got rescheduled.

That day, my daughter was fully in the moment.

Time didn’t exist. The only metric was: keep going.

No outcome. No agenda. Just…more.

I was on a schedule.

Every hour accounted for, every task justified.

Every minute explained, as if existing required permission.

Kids experience life to the fullest.

Adults? We manage things.

We get better at life and worse at living it.

• Fluorescent paradise for eight hours: controlled productivity.
  The kind that looks impressive on paper and feels like nothing in your body.

• Bounce house for six hours: complete freedom.
  The kind you can’t measure, which is probably why we stop choosing it.

And there it was, the tension no one warns you about: the life you’re building versus the life happening without you.

One looks responsible. The other feels real.

I chose the latter. And did just the same as my daughter: spent the remainder of daylight outside, watching her exemplify joy.

No optimization. No productivity hack. Just showing up.

When given the choice, I hope we all choose the second option.

Even when it feels inconvenient. Even when it makes no sense on paper.

We learned to manage it. We forgot to be in it.

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It’s been a week. My first book launched last Wednesday.

Unreal.

My brain is still catching up.

The most common question I’ve been asked in these last seven days is, “How does it feel?”

Part terrific, part terrified.

Why?

There’s a lot of real in this book. I have a habit of being brutally, yet kindly, honest when I communicate.

My childhood and upbringing weren’t always a rose garden.

Adulthood? More like lying on a bed of cacti.

The reality is, I wouldn’t trade any of it.

I wouldn’t trade any of it.

Doing so risks not knowing what I know now.

Sharing my story brought so much more than “Great job” or “The book was awesome.”

It created meaningful moments.

And that makes me wonder…

If the outcome of sharing our story is connection like this, what really holds us back?

Or maybe, deep down, fear that it will matter.

Because once it’s out there, it’s no longer just yours. It has the power to meet someone else right where they are.

That kind of honesty changes things.

I’m only one week in, and I already know this: the scary part isn’t the writing.

It’s the sharing.

But it might also be the point.

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That sentence feels both surreal and strangely quiet after everything it took to get here.

This book didn’t start as a “book idea.” It started as tension. As questions I didn’t have answers to. As moments that didn’t make sense while I was living them.

It’s a story of disapproval, storms, and the quiet ache of not quite belonging.

It’s about navigating expectations—some spoken, most silently imposed—and slowly realizing how easy it is to lose your voice when you spend too long trying to live up to them.

It’s also about what it takes to get that voice back.

At the center of it all is our adoption journey.

April 8, 2026, marks four years since Gabby legally became ours. Four years since everything shifted. Not all at once, not in some cinematic, neatly wrapped moment—but slowly, imperfectly, and in ways I’m still learning to understand.

If there’s one truth this story keeps circling back to, it’s this:

And sometimes, it takes walking through uncertainty, disappointment, and more than a few storms to actually believe that.

This book holds a lot:

The hard conversations.
The moments of doubt.
The quiet, ordinary days that didn’t feel significant at the time, but ended up changing everything.

It also holds humor, because if you don’t learn to laugh somewhere along the way, the weight of it all gets unbearable.

And it holds faith—not the polished, easy kind, but the kind that gets tested, stretched, and rebuilt over time.

A sense of home, I’ve learned, isn’t a destination. Healing doesn’t arrive all at once. Neither does hope.

These are built slowly. Through perseverance. Through love. By choosing to keep going when it would be easier not to.

That’s what I poured into these pages.

Not perfection. Not answers to everything. Just honesty.

Wherever you find yourself in The Gabby Effect, my hope isn’t just that you understand my story.

It’s that somewhere in it, you recognize your own.

You can find the book here.

And if you’re here reading this—whether you’ve followed my writing for years or just stumbled into this space today—thank you!

This part of the journey exists because of you. 💟

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My daughter held her latest creation with pride as she showed it to her small audience, our friends who were visiting. “Look what I made!” she exclaimed. She opened her palm to reveal a tiny porcelain cupcake with splashes of red, purple, and green. It was noticeable that she had made an effort to stay inside the lines, but somewhere between her tiny paintbrush and inexperienced hands, the objective had been lost. That certainly didn’t dampen her feeling of accomplishment that day.

She’d completed her project the day my husband and I spent at the hospital while he underwent a six-hour surgery. Since the moment the procedure had been scheduled months in advance, dread hovered over my thoughts and plans, letting anxiety creep in. Its monstrous grip held tight to my former calm and contentment. I’m not usually a worrier, but with the final surgery of four coming up, I knew the risks.

My husband had been in a life-threatening accident on an unseasonably warm evening, just before spring emerged in 2025. After that, his taking advantage of the gorgeous weather seemed like a crime. The hospital stay, multiple surgeries, and numerous follow-up appointments that followed were stifling. The last thirteen months had been filled with a new level of unknowns for our family.

In moments where worry tries to steal my joy, God installs small reminders. “I’ve got you,” He says, through a friend bringing a meal, sending a thoughtful text, or praying with me. I have to remember that my husband wasn’t taken from me. This ordeal has given us even more to be thankful for. How else would I discover that it takes him a minimum of two hours to awaken from “surgery sleep” when an anesthesiologist is involved? (He treasures his rest, even in those moments!) And where else would I have been able to enjoy his post-procedure loopy moments?

My word for this year is “moments,” and it’s God’s personal reminder to me to enjoy the little things in life, to let time slow down. To take deep breaths when I wouldn’t have taken pause at all. He provided these snapshots to remind me of what He wants me to reflect on.

My husband’s last surgery took place thirteen months after the incident, and I was worried about it. Why? Isn’t God good enough? Hadn’t He shown me His faithfulness? I let the unknown take over my gratitude for how far we’ve come. The day before surgery at church, I was reminded of one of my favorite verses:

Just like the level of pride my daughter had when she completed her cupcake, God must cherish the beautiful horizons He paints, the sunsets that take our breath away. He crafts each new day, and yet, He is faithful to us too. This verse served as a reminder that God was watching over Surgery Day as well. May I never take another day or moment for granted again, no matter what the schedule holds.

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In elementary school one year, something wild happened…

Before personal computers were everywhere, I’d been consistently writing since I knew how. Back then, writing was manual, pen-to-paper. It was a sensory experience: grab a sheet of lined paper (college- or wide-ruled), whichever was preferred, snag a No. 2 pencil, and off it went. Creating something, seeing the words on the page, feeling the pencil press grooves into the paper with each stroke, and continuing to develop my handwriting were facets I’ve never gotten over. While helpful, typing on a keyboard still isn’t the same.

At a young age, most of my handwritten words were stowed away in super-secret diaries, the ones that came with a lock and key. I shared my deepest and innermost thoughts that would never see the light of day or meet another set of eyes. When I became more mature and advanced in my writing, I upgraded to a journal (a diary without the lock and key).

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Back in elementary school, I wrote a story about my summer break on a piece of wide-ruled notebook paper…

My family and I traveled to Alabama to visit my grandparents, aunt, and cousins. I didn’t get to see my cousins often, so I was excited about the trip. My aunt had recently purchased a new-to-her home, so she insisted that we cousins spend some extra time together. They had pets, which was the cherry on top. We would spend the night at my aunt’s house, to which my siblings and I squealed with excitement. My parents were staying at my grandparents’ house, five minutes down the road.

No official house tour took place. My siblings and I sat on the floor in my aunt’s family room, talking with her and my cousins and petting the animals (birds, cats, and dogs). It was a bright room with mint-green walls and a high ceiling with lots of windows. The air felt thick, carrying a musty smell that clung to the room. We sat on the crusty-carpeted floor because she didn’t have much furniture yet. Bird cages lined the windows.

It should have been a comfortable, cozy setting.

It wasn’t.

Something about it felt off, like the room was holding its breath.

My aunt casually told us mysterious stories about the house. They weren’t happy stories. One of her cats had a litter of adorable kittens, so she briefly left the room to grab towels and help the new mother care for the babies. When she got back, most of the kittens had disappeared. She thinks the mom ate them! (My stomach turned. I remember going quiet.)

I was seven or eight years old at the time, and that was hard information to process. My cousins continued the storytelling session by sharing multiple occasions when light switches would randomly change positions, usually leaving the room’s occupant in the dark. Lights snapping off mid-sentence, mid-step. (I braced myself for it to happen while we were there, just to show off. It didn’t.) They said other times, they could hear someone walking on the creaky wood floors upstairs while everyone was downstairs. Slow, deliberate steps moving back and forth.

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After the stories, my cousins showed off their rooms. Naturally, I wasn’t too thrilled about the prospect, but curiosity won. What would we find? My other siblings were going, too, so why not? One cousin’s closet revealed another door inside, the kind you see in the movies that leads to the attic. Sure enough, same here. Thank goodness, we didn’t go into the attic. That would’ve pushed my rising anxiety over the edge.

The longer I was in the house, the more uneasy I became. My chest tightened. My thoughts got louder. Never have I felt like that before or since. It was as if my spirit was conflicting with something inside the house, and they couldn’t coexist. (When asked later, my siblings couldn’t corroborate my story.) Really? I didn’t need them to. The feeling was undeniable. The only explanation I can offer years later is that I was experiencing spiritual oppression at a young age.

I knew what I had to do: I couldn’t spend the night there. Every instinct in me said, “Get out!” In fact, the feeling got so strong that I was uncomfortable spending another moment there. The thought of being in that place after dark was unbearable. Night hadn’t even fallen yet, and I was already imagining shadows stretching across those mint-green walls. It took some convincing on my part, but after lots of begging, my aunt finally called my parents, who picked me up minutes later, just before dark. My other siblings spent the night there.

When I got to school that fall, I shared my handwritten account of the “haunted house” encounter with a classmate of mine, complete with illustrations. She felt compelled to share it with her friend. That friend shared it with another friend. The story made its way around the class, then my entire elementary school. I don’t recall the story ever making its way back to me, but that didn’t matter at the time.

While the feeling was incredibly empowering, I wondered: if my words could have that kind of influence then, and in the form of a simple story, how could they be used to create lasting impact?

If I could share a story that would share itself, perhaps I was onto something.

If I could write something that would in turn help at least one person, that would be enough for me.

I always knew I would write a book; I didn’t know that I would share my story, the one God gave me and prompted me to write. A story that, even then, refused to stay on the page. It has been one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. But it has also been one of the most rewarding. My story is for those who are alone, seeking a sense of home, but are facing obstacles that seem impossible to surpass.

Everyone is trying to find home, a place of belonging and peace. A place where they can be unapologetically themselves. A place where there is contentment and rest. A place where nothing feels like it’s working against you. Whatever obstacle you face, I hope and pray that after reading my story, you discover it is not an obstacle, but instead, an opportunity.

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The day was finally here.

This day wouldn’t take the memories away, but if successful, it would remove the visible wounds.

I stared at my bookbag as if it were a foreign object. I couldn’t bring myself to pack it. Not because I couldn’t. Because doing so meant I’d have to process Monday.

Monday.

The dreaded day I would hand my husband back over to a medical team.

Again.

Something felt unsettling about calling anything “final” when you’ve already lived through the moment that almost wasn’t.

On Tuesday, February 25, 2025, he was almost taken from me. Not in a hypothetical, “that could have been bad” kind of way. In the kind of way that rearranges something in you without asking permission.

We were lucky, but we didn’t walk away without some souvenirs, reminders of life’s fragility.

Broken bones and permanent scars needed to be removed. Fixed. Reconstructed. Made to look more like before.

This surgery is supposed to be the last one.

The last procedure.
The last time I walk him into a building and let someone else take over.
The last time I sit in a waiting room pretending I have any control over the outcome.

The word “final” is supposed to feel like relief. Like a finish line. Like something we get to celebrate.

But sitting here, staring at a bag I still haven’t packed, it feels more like being asked to loosen my grip.

As long as there was another appointment, another procedure, another plan, I could convince myself I was doing something. Holding something together. Controlling at least a small piece of the outcome.

But this part? This requires something different.

Not control, but trust.

Not answers, but surrender.

And maybe that’s the real work all this time.

Not just getting him through surgery after surgery, but learning how to release what was never mine to hold so tightly in the first place.

If all goes well, the visible wounds will fade.

And in their place, something quieter but stronger remains: relief, perspective, and a renewed way of seeing what we’ve been given.

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Dear Jess,

You are a strong woman, one who has, with My help, overcome many obstacles. You didn’t know you would watch your dog die in the summer of 2024, only to nearly lose your husband the following year. But you shared those experiences with others, allowed them to support you, and leaned on Me.

You are stubborn, and I can use that. Don’t let it get in your way. Use it to tell others about Me and to share your story. I have given you a unique life, and your story will be unlike any other. Don’t let the fear of success keep you from pursuing what I have in store.

I want to bless you beyond your wildest dreams.

Let Me.

With miraculous love,
God

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This week was filled with a surplus of grumbling, especially in the evenings after work. My MacBook and I had a recurring “date.” Every night so far this week. My husband wisely steered clear.

The workload morphed me back to Middle School computer class, where I first learned how to use Microsoft Word. In 2026, the bones are still the same, just with a few more bells and whistles.

When taking on the task of self-publishing a book through Amazon, it feels a lot like applying all the things you learned back in computer class—with a gallon of fuel poured on top and someone hovering nearby with a lit match over everything you just built that now smells faintly of gasoline.

Which Word template should I use? Translation: What dimensions will my physical book have?

Which book cover template should I use? Translation: How can I make the size of the cover match the size of the actual book?

How do I make the headings and page numbers on Page 20 mirror those on Page 2? Translation: I need a Word crash course on headers and footers.

It’s not Amazon; it’s me.

A massive learning gap, paired with a multitude of user errors, is smeared all over this process.

I learned patience. That was baked in. But I also learned something else.

Self-publishing is not for the easily deterred, and my stubbornness is a weapon…of sorts. I don’t have any quit in me when it comes to doing something I believe in.

• Helping customers troubleshoot a software glitch? ✅ Check!

• Listening to a lengthy vent about a recent experience a friend had? ✅ Check!

• Leading my daughter to the correct answer for her arithmetic problem? ✅ Check!

Late last night, well after my usual bedtime (when I knew I’d be feeling the lack of sleep in the wee hours of the morning), the publishing platform finally stopped screaming.

I’d done it.

I’d checked the boxes, aligned all the margins, and fulfilled the previously blank fields.

In instances like this, I don’t know how to say “no.” And that’s a good thing.

When faced with life’s challenges—when something you unashamedly believe in is on the other side—don’t let any size serving of difficulty dictate whether or not you continue.

I survived self-publishing. I learned so much. And I wouldn’t trade this experience for anything.

Whatever you’re facing, you’ll make it through, too. Don’t give in! 👊🏼

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The keys felt like magic at the end of my fingertips.

Once I learned how to type, “sprinting” across a keyboard helped me visualize dreams coming true. Words held power. And magic.

In middle school, I was kind of a big deal…in my head, at least.

At the age of nine—the same age my daughter Gabby is now—I learned to silence my voice to meet the demands and expectations of others. A piece of my identity disappeared.

Until Typing Class.

My teacher had a favorite student, whether she realized it or not. She was one of the first adults who went to bat for me. That felt good after being told to be seen and not heard for many years.

My first typewriter didn’t have letters, so I could truly learn them.

Along with my in-class teacher, Mavis Beacon taught me a few things, too, including how mistyping digits on the number pad would send poor groceries careening off the edge of a checkout conveyor belt. “Playing” cashier wasn’t as fun as it sounds.

Thanks to someone who believed in me, I went on to hone my skills to the tune of 100+ wpm (wpm = words per minute, for those who are curious and counting).

What truly sticks out is…

And power requires responsibility.

I have the power to communicate at my fingertips:

Words can become weapons.

Or wizardry.

Nowadays, my keyboards still don’t have letters on them.

But not because they didn’t have them in the first place.

Because I used them.

Because fluency leaves evidence.

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A year ago today, my world turned on its axis.

Not slowly or gently.

Violently.

Words were said, but their truth wouldn’t penetrate my brain at first…

A year ago today, my husband was in an unforeseen, life-threatening accident that fractured the left side of his face.

The helmet he was wearing?

It saved his life.

The days and weeks that followed were filled with stitches and surgeries. Time moved differently inside those hospital walls. My gratitude for his medical team grew exponentially during his 4-day, 3-night stay. For those who cared for him in those early hours, I don’t have words.

For what my husband experienced as a result of the wreck… I don’t have words for that either.

A handful of learnings stand out when I think back on this season:

• Life is fragile, and moments are precious.

• Teeth are expensive. (Ok, ok… I already knew this based on my own struggles in this area, but it’s still worth noting.)

• Insurance is crucial; miracles are better.

• People want to help, and sometimes, they just need to be invited. And sometimes, you have to let them.

One year later, we still feel the aftershocks. There are appointments and bills and stories we tell differently now.

But there is also breath. And laughter.

And a man sitting nearby as I write this. Alive. A marriage that knows, in its bones, how quickly everything can change.

We were shattered. But we were not lost.

And we are still here.

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I am one of six kids. Constant chaos filled our house. There was always a church service, a school event, or a sports game to rush to. Within the continuous craziness, the loudest voice was heard; all others were ignored. It was a game of survival. In this case, survival of the loudest. The noise level was unmatched. And yet, throughout my childhood and into adulthood, I never felt more alone. There were always people around. Privacy was a pipe dream, not a reality. Our house was the opening scene of Home Alone. And I was Kevin. Forgotten and left behind.

I became self-sufficient, in need of nothing. In need of no one. I didn’t ask for help. I didn’t need to. I knew how to find and get the things I needed. I could fend for myself at a very early age. I got pegged for being cynical, even the “black sheep” of the family, a stealthy child. (At times, that wasn’t entirely inaccurate. There was plenty of room for scheming when no one was looking.) I hid in plain sight. Being overlooked turned into my invisibility cloak. My superpower.

I gained independence rather than it being given to me or earned at a certain age or maturity level. What I didn’t realize then was that the less I needed, the less anyone thought to check on me. I mastered self-sufficiency. I just didn’t notice what it was costing me.

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I stepped up to the lane, heart pulsing. It was only a warm-up before the game, but my body didn’t get the memo. The bowling ball in my hands felt like an anchor.

My husband, Jeremy, and I were on a weekly bowling league with my parents. As newlyweds, we were trying to both build our connection with them and simultaneously impress them. Jeremy was a good bowler; I tended to be a bit of a loose cannon, which felt like a liability in front of an audience I cared far too much about.

As I released the weight, letting the ball slip gracefully from my fingers, it did its job. All ten pins collapsed on cue. Too bad it was just practice. (Or so I thought.)

I turned around to face my team, expecting cheers of congratulations. Instead, I received a particularly concerned look from Mom, the kind that skips celebration and goes straight to triage. She gestured me over. In a hushed tone, she said, “Go to the women’s restroom and turn around in the mirror.” In a single motion, she urged me toward the bathroom and placed her sweatshirt in my arms.

I did as I was told, turned around, and looked into the mirror. To my horror, I’d ripped a generous-sized hole in the back of my jeans, right at the seam between the two back pockets. I’m nothing if not thorough, apparently.

If I’d gone home to change, I would’ve missed most of the three-game match. Mom’s generous offer solved more than just my embarrassment. It allowed me to stay. Bowling isn’t the place to have a wardrobe malfunction, especially one that announces itself to anyone standing behind you.

But no one pays attention to us as much as we think, even when we’re convinced the spotlight is fixed squarely on our backside.

When going bowling these days, I always bring an extra pair of jeans—or a sweatshirt. If that traumatic day taught me anything else, it’s how liberating it is to realize most people aren’t watching us at all. They’re too busy worrying about their own split seams, missed shots, and imaginary audiences.

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I stared up at the ceiling, wishing I were anywhere else. The murmurs of my siblings intensified.

It was all my fault.

Earlier, I’d triggered my younger sister’s first panic attack. The second hit just moments ago when my hot dog from lunch made a second appearance.

Dad and Mom were beside themselves, but they kept calm and quiet. I was the only kid of the five of us who was ill, thanks to elevation intolerance.

The hot dog situation was probably just the stress of the day materializing.

The first panic attack came while we were in line waiting for our lunch order to appear at the pickup counter. It took forever. Standing in line, the elevation at Yellowstone hit me all at once.

I blacked out and needed to be carried back to the table where Mom and the rest of my siblings waited. So much for helping Dad and my younger sister carry the food.

It wasn’t my day to be a hero. It wasn’t my day at all.

At eleven, I was sure this was the worst day of my life. This was the pits. The bottom. On display for the entire family. Nothing like having a captive audience on the most awful day.

The second panic attack hit when the entire family was present, all at once, crammed into a van that would later earn the nickname “the Chuck Wagon.”

I didn’t know then how long this moment would follow me, or how often I’d mistake one bad day for a definition. But somewhere along the way, I learned that needing help made me dangerous.

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Dear Young Jessica,

You lost your voice at the same age your daughter is now.

It was a bright, sunny afternoon. Inspiration hit like an undeniable urge. You sang one of your favorite songs at the time, pretending to perform in front of thousands. It was some of your best work yet. But it wasn’t appreciated by the real-life audience.

You received words as weapons and mistook preference for direction.

The volume wasn’t turned down; the audio was turned off.

There it remained for decades.

You didn’t know any better.

Eventually, both a backbone and thick skin formed. They were your armor. Almost nothing could harm you.

Instead, you became numb to it all. Nothing coming in; nothing going out.

Singing? A distant memory.

Voicing opinions? You wouldn’t dare.

Feathers weren’t to be ruffled. Eggshells pressed into the soles of your feet.

You’d been trained and groomed right where they wanted you.

But what was that ache, that noisy emptiness inside?

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“Is she a good camping buddy?”

While I’m typing, my daughter’s upstairs making some sort of racket. She has this adorable Melissa & Doug camping set, complete with a cloth fire stuffed with cotton. The marshmallows are crafted the same way, only they have holes inside. Sticks with velcro keep the marshmallows in place while “roasting.” My daughter has enjoyed her “camping” set and used it so much that it might qualify for retirement.

“Yes, ma’am!” came my daughter’s reply. “Good thing I have a flashlight in here!”

Of course, it’s not camping if the overhead lights are on. Her camping buddy is one of our dogs she coaxed into the closet. She has a walk-in closet, which transformed into her campsite this fine evening. She doesn’t have siblings, so the dogs will have to do. (She has three options to choose from, so they take turns for torture.)

I learned a few things from her today:

She’s creative. The closet-turned-campsite was straight out of her own head.

She makes connections wherever she goes, even if it’s with a hostage dog.

She’s confident. She knew it’d get dark and came prepared, flashlight in hand.

Kids don’t wait for perfect conditions. They create magic out of closets and flashlight beams. Adults could stand to remember that.

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“The bathrooms are awful.”

Judging by the looks on everyone’s faces, I’d apparently said the wrong thing—or maybe just said the right thing too plainly.

It was feedback time at the end of Horse Camp, and our instructor had asked for one suggestion from each attendee to improve the week. My ten-year-old brain answered honestly: better bathrooms.

To be fair, the bathrooms weren’t much better than a port-a-potty. Thankfully, camp didn’t include overnight stays. Still, no one likes facing a mystery puddle at 3 p.m.

We’d spent the week watching horse videos, sitting through classroom lessons, and barely touching an actual horse until the final day. My first act of defiance came earlier that week when I chose the English saddle instead of the Western one. What everyone else thought was weird, I saw as simply different.

By the end, I was tired of pretending everything was great. So, when asked for feedback, I gave it—no sugarcoating, just truth.

I never went back to that delightful camp in Michigan. I’m sure they’ve upgraded the bathrooms by now—but maybe not the feedback sessions. That day, I learned the world doesn’t always reward honesty. But it’s also where I learned I’d rather risk the eye-rolls than lose my voice.

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My daughter Gabby loves leftovers. She’ll eat almost anything, which, for parents, is a true blessing. Fresh food is preferred, leftovers are awesome, fast food is laziness but acceptable, and eating out or takeout are rare treats we savor.

I consider myself a solid cook. I can follow directions like a champ, and sometimes go rogue, making memorized recipes my own. The pots don’t usually boil over, and the smoke detector hasn’t gone off in years. My family doesn’t run when I start cooking dinner, so I consider that a win.

With that said, there was that one time I tried something new: a hashbrown casserole from formerly frozen now soggy hashbrowns. (I might as well have made mashed potatoes.) The mush swallowed the eggs and chopped sausage, and let’s just say it wasn’t a hit.

When it comes to food, Gabby isn’t picky. But she doesn’t love all leftovers. When it comes to connection, she deserves to come first.

A couple of weeks ago, she noticed Elio had dropped on Disney+.

“Mommy, do you want to watch Elio with me?”

“Sure, Buddy. Remind me this weekend.”

“Mommy, when is our next Mommy/Daughter date?”

“I think we just had one this month. Let’s go in a couple of weeks.”

I wasn’t getting the hint.

“Mommy, will you play the new Wii game with me?”

That time, I got it. She doesn’t care what we do—she just wants to be together.

Connection doesn’t reheat well.

Be present.

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