I'm sitting outside as I write this, and the world is about to change.
The clouds above me are gathering—thick, dark, pregnant with the kind of storm that makes the air feel electric. But right now, in this exact moment, the breeze is cool and gentle against my skin, and I can hear the most beautiful sound in the world: my daughter's laughter mixing with her cousins' giggles as they chase each other around the yard, their little feet pounding against the earth like tiny drums of pure joy.
And suddenly, I'm eight years old again.
When Time Folds In On Itself
Do you ever have those moments where past and present collapse into each other like pages in a book caught by the wind? That's what just happened to me.
I'm watching these babies run wild and free, their hair flying behind them, their faces flushed with the kind of happiness that only comes from being completely, utterly present—and suddenly I am them. I'm that little girl who used to run through my grandmother's backyard until my lungs burned and my legs felt like jelly, not caring about anything except the feeling of my body moving through space and the wind rushing past my ears.
God, when was the last time I felt that? That complete abandon? That total trust in my own body, my own joy, my own right to take up space in this world?
The Weight We Carry
Somewhere along the way—maybe it was when I became a teacher and felt the weight of other people's children's futures on my shoulders, maybe it was when I lost my parents and suddenly understood how fragile everything is, maybe it was when I became a mother myself and realized that worry is now a permanent resident in my chest—somewhere along the way, I forgot how to run just for the sake of running.
I forgot how to feel the wind without thinking about what it might bring. I forgot how to laugh without wondering if I was being too loud. I forgot how to be present without my mind racing ahead to all the things I needed to do, should do, hadn't done yet.
But watching my daughter—reallywatching her—I remember.
The Teacher Becomes the Student
You know what's wild? I spent years in classrooms thinking I was there to teach children. But really? They were teaching me.
Children are born knowing how to be present. They don't have to read books about mindfulness or download meditation apps or take courses on how to live in the moment. They just... do. They exist in the right-now with a completeness that we adults spend thousands of dollars trying to get back to.
My daughter doesn't know that the dark clouds might mean we have to go inside soon. She doesn't know that there's laundry waiting in the basket or bills that need paying or emails that need responding to. She just knows that right now, in this moment, there's space to run and cousins to chase and joy to be had.
And watching her, I remember: This is how we're supposed to live.
The Sacred Ordinary
This moment—me, outside, feeling the breeze, hearing children's laughter, watching storm clouds gather—it's nothing special. It's a Wednesday afternoon. It's ordinary. It's the kind of moment that usually gets swallowed up by the rush of daily life.
But here's what I'm learning: The sacred lives in the ordinary. The extraordinary hides in the everyday. The moments that change us aren't always the big ones—sometimes they're as simple as sitting outside and remembering what it felt like to be eight years old and free.
I'm thinking about all the moments I've missed because I was somewhere else in my head. All the times my daughter called my name and I was present in body but absent in spirit, my mind tangled up in worries about tomorrow or regrets about yesterday.
How many breezes have I not felt? How many laughs have I not really heard? How many opportunities for joy have I let slip by because I was too busy being busy?
The Gift of Remembering
But here's the beautiful thing about remembering: It doesn't just connect you to who you used to be. It reminds you of who you still are.
That eight-year-old who ran through her grandmother's yard under the pecan trees? She's still here. She's still in me. She's been waiting patiently for me to slow down enough to remember her, to honor her, to let her breathe again.
And you know what she's whispering to me right now as I watch my daughter play? She's saying: "It's not too late. You can still run. You can still feel the wind. You can still choose joy."
The Practice of Presence
So this is my invitation to you, beautiful soul—and to myself: What if we made a practice of this? What if we made it our sacred work to really show up for the ordinary moments?
What if we put down our phones when our children are playing and actually watched them—really watched them—until we could see ourselves in their wild, free spirits?
What if we stepped outside and felt the breeze on our skin like it was the first time, like it was a gift meant just for us?
What if we let ourselves remember who we were before the world taught us to be so serious, so worried, so responsible for everything and everyone?
What if we gave ourselves permission to chase joy the way children chase each other—with abandon, with trust, with the deep knowing that this moment is all we have and all we need?
The Storm and the Calm
The clouds are getting darker now. The wind is picking up. In a few minutes, I'll probably have to call the kids inside, and this perfect moment will be over.
But that's okay. Because I was here for it. I was present for it. I let it change me.
And maybe that's the real gift—not that we can make perfect moments last forever, but that we can choose to really show up for them while they're here.
The storm will come. The ordinary Wednesday will end. My daughter will grow up, and someday she'll be a woman sitting somewhere, watching her own children play, remembering what it felt like to be young and free and full of possibility.
But right now, in this moment, she's three and I'm her mother and the breeze is cool and the laughter is sweet and the world is full of magic disguised as an ordinary afternoon.
And I'm here for all of it.
Invitation to Remember
So tell me, love: When was the last time you let yourself really feel the wind? When was the last time you remembered the child you used to be and honored her with your presence?
What would that little version of you want you to remember about joy, about freedom, about the sacred art of simply being alive?
Maybe it's time to step outside. Maybe it's time to feel the breeze. Maybe it's time to remember that you don't have to earn joy—it's already yours. It's been waiting for you to slow down enough to notice it.
The clouds are gathering, but the moment is here.
Are you?
If this post touched something in your heart, I'd love to know what childhood memory came up for you while reading it. Share it in the comments below—let's remind each other of the joy that's still living inside us, waiting to be remembered.
And if you want more gentle reminders to slow down and savor the sacred ordinary, join my weekly newsletter where I share real talk about finding magic in the everyday chaos of life. Because sometimes we all need someone to remind us that we're allowed to feel the wind.✨
