I watch my children now, grown and leading their own teams, raising their own families, and I see myself reflected back in ways that fill me with both pride and ache.
They lead with integrity. They treat people with compassion and respect. They hold themselves accountable. I never sat them down and taught them these things. I was too busy working, providing, building a career that I told myself was for them. But somehow, in the margins of all that bustle, they were watching. They learned anyway.
What breaks my heart is what else they learned.
I see the exhaustion in their faces during our FaceTime calls. The stress of providing while trying to be present. They're living to work instead of working to live, and I recognize it immediately because I taught them that too. Not with words, but with my example.
They moved to other states for work. Good opportunities. The kind of opportunities I would have told them to take. And we still love each other dearly. That will never be in question. But we took "being together" for granted, and now I understand what we lost.
It's the Sunday morning coffee I don't share with them anymore. Being the person they call when something breaks. Knowing my grandchildren's routines without asking. The relationship with their kids that geography now separates. This might be what hurts most. Not the distance between us, but the distance between me and the daily texture of their lives.
I want to tell them to slow down. To make memories instead of just making a living. To understand that exhaustion isn't the same as accomplishment. But how can I? I'm the one who showed them this is what dedication looks like.
Here's what I'm learning too late. Proximity matters more than I understood. Being there isn't the same as loving from afar. And the nuances of daily life — the ordinary moments I dismissed as unimportant while I was busy with important things — those were actually everything.
If you're reading this and your kids are still close, still within reach of a Sunday morning coffee or an unplanned weeknight dinner, don't take it for granted. I did. Many do.
And if you're reading this and your kids have already moved away for work, for opportunity, for all the reasons that made sense at the time — being apart doesn't have to mean staying apart. That's what I'm learning now. Distance is a circumstance, not a destiny.
I taught my children integrity without trying. I taught them exhaustion the same way. But I'm also learning that it's never too late to teach them — and myself — something new. That the life worth living isn't always the one that looks most impressive from the outside.
It's the one where you show up. Where you're there. Where Sunday morning coffee isn't a phone call, but a presence.
I'm still figuring out what that means. But I know it starts with choosing it.
Maybe they're watching this too.