All She Asked For

To choose presence anyway, one moment at a time.

Thank you for listening!

Take this reflection into the silence, and I'll see you next time.

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Transcript

The baby store carried the scent of fresh packaging and possibility. My wife stood examining a stroller, her fingers testing the smooth handle that would soon guide our child through the world.

I pulled out my phone. Emails. Always emails.

"Why do you do this every time you come shopping with me?" Her voice, carrying a hint of disappointment.

"All I ask is for you to be present."

The phone grew heavy in my hand. She was right. None of those emails mattered more than choosing the right stroller, more than her questions about versatility ratings, more than being her partner in these thousand small decisions that would shape our child's world.

I slipped the device into my pocket. The emails could wait. They always could.

She turned to me then, and I recognized that look—the one we've all seen when we choose our screens over the people beside us. It's everywhere now. Couples at restaurants, both lost in separate digital worlds. Parents at playgrounds, missing their children's triumphs while answering just one more message. Friends gathering in person only to scatter into their individual feeds.

We tell ourselves we're multitasking. We're efficient. We're staying connected. But we're lying. We're hiding from the terrifying simplicity of just being here.

The Zen masters, the Yogis, all the wise ancient teachers advise: "When you eat, just eat. When you walk, just walk. When you make tea, just make tea." They make it sound simple. They don't mention how your mind screams for distraction, how silence feels like drowning, how being present means feeling everything you've been avoiding. But perhaps that's the point. To choose presence anyway, one moment at a time.

My wife picked up a tiny onesie, held it against the light. "Aw, so cute," she said. "I love imagining our baby in this with you."

I looked at her holding that tiny onesie, her eyes bright with joy. This was the moment. Not some imagined future, but right here. My wife picking out clothes for our baby, asking my opinion, wanting to share this experience with me. The softness of the fabric. The decisions about sizes and seasons. Her excitement about each small choice. This was what mattered. My presence.