The Road I Thought I Knew: On Presence & Gratitude

This post originally appeared in my weekly newsletter, BL&T (Borrowed, Learned, & Thought). Subscribe

Borrowed

“Moreover, it’s impractical: if you have a job or children, much of life will necessarily be somewhat routine, and opportunities for exotic travel may be limited.

An alternative, Shinzen Young explains, is to pay more attention to every moment, however mundane: to find novelty not by doing radically different things but by plunging more deeply into the life you already have.

Experience life with twice the usual intensity, and “your experience of life would be twice as full as it currently is”—and any period of life would be remembered as having lasted twice as long.”

From “Four Thousand Weeks” by Oliver Burkeman

Learned

There is a long, straight road that runs between my house and my parents’ house. To get there, I make a left out of my driveway, make a right onto this road, drive about 10 minutes, then make a left onto the street I grew up on, where my parents live. Along the way, I pass my high school and my Mom-Mom’s house. It is a road I have taken for most of my life, and at this point, I could probably make the short commute with my eyes closed.

When we moved here four years ago, I remember feeling a bit disappointed about that road. I knew I would be on it a lot, and I found it so dull. Maybe because it is only two lanes, and if you get stuck behind a slow car, you are stuck. Maybe because the traffic piles up at certain intersections. Maybe because it felt too familiar, and I was still getting used to living back home, a place where I never thought I'd settle down.

Then, it got worse. We moved Mylo’s daycare in May, which meant we would be on this road at least four times a day. Before his first day, I remember trying to find another route on Google Maps, but I quickly gave up. The long road is definitely the smartest way to go, so I knew I would have to get used to it.

Over time, I noticed that when I stopped dreading the turn onto this road, always eager to reach the end, I could actually enjoy the ride. Perhaps a metaphor for life.

Sometimes that meant teaching Mylo to sing “high” and “low” as we drove to school. Sometimes it meant catching the small things, like the strange short sidewalk someone added to both sides of their driveway. Sometimes it meant letting memories fill my mind, like the joy of running out to my car on the last day of high school or the disappointment of the fender bender I got into after picking up my grandparents, only days after getting a new car.

It is just a road, but it holds so many versions of my past life and the one I am creating. And in that way, I’ve found it’s rather beautiful.

On Halloween night, Dana, Mylo, and I were on that road heading home from my parents after trick or treating through my childhood neighborhood. It was dark and quiet, and we were still laughing about how Mylo was a trooper. Once he figured out the trick-or-treat process, he went from house to house, all bundled up as a monkey, walking for almost two hours on his own two feet. When we left, my parents told us to drive safely. They have said that my entire life, so I barely register it anymore.

Minutes after arriving home, they texted to ask if we had heard the sirens. We had not heard anything on the drive and were already inside. We went to sleep smiling at a night well spent.

The next day, we learned why there were sirens. Three boys were driving on that same road and crashed their car. The driver was only 15. The others were 16 and 18. All three lost their lives. The other driver was in critical condition. The accident happened only minutes after we passed that stretch. We likely drove right by them on our way home.

My heart sank.

It is the kind of news that brings your life into sharp focus. That could have been us. I caught myself drifting into thoughts about the life I am leading. If it were all over today, was I paying attention? Was I proud of how I was showing up? Was I moving through my days with intention or just moving fast? I thought about the weeks that feel packed, the days that feel ordinary, the stretches of time where I am already thinking ahead, hoping today builds a better tomorrow. Moments like this interrupt all of that and make you aware of the life you are living right now, not someday.

And becoming a parent has only intensified that feeling. The idea of losing your child is something you almost cannot let your mind entertain. It is too painful. Too unreal. I thought about those families and how quickly their lives changed, and how the everyday moments they once took for granted are now the moments they would give anything to get back.

I thought about Mylo, too, and how one day he will be out in the world on his own, making choices without me in the passenger seat.

But mostly, when I heard the news, I just thought about our drive home that evening and how different our lives could have been.

Moments like that do not stay contained. They linger. They follow you into the next day and the one after that. They make you look at your routines, your pace, and the way you move through time with a different kind of awareness.

A friend of mine, Kyle, said something recently that has been on my mind: “The days are long and the years are short.” I have heard the phrase before, but this season of life makes it feel different. With how fast Mylo is growing and how full our days are, it is startling how quickly time moves when I am busy thinking about the next thing on my list. I think of the daily rush to get dinner on the table when Mylo gets home, and then the nightly routine before bed. On a busy day, it can be like autopilot.

And all of that was on my mind heading into Thanksgiving.

We had our all-hands meeting before the holiday, and I asked the team to share something they were grateful for in both their work and their lives. It was powerful to hear everyone open up. People talked about kids finally sleeping through the night, the comfort of routine after a hectic year, meeting their future spouse, and how grateful they are to work in a remote environment that still feels connected. The sort of things, big and small, people do not always say out loud.

It grounded me in a way I did not expect. I felt grateful for the team and motivated to continue building this company. It also had me reflecting on gratitude in my own life. On Thursday morning, I was getting ready for the day, still thinking about what everyone shared, and my mind drifted back to the road and those boys. A reminder that chasing goals and building a future for my family matters, but not at the cost of missing the present. Within minutes, the bones of this entire essay formed in my head.

Now every morning, when we drive home from daycare, we go up the hill where those boys lost their lives. I see the white spray paint marking the tire tracks and think about the families who will never be the same. I think about the futures those boys never got to live. And every time, I think about my own life. Not with fear, but with a quiet reminder to pay attention. To be present and intentional. To be grateful for right now, as I am living it.