An Ordinary Moment: Watching My Son

This piece is part of my Ordinary Moment series — reflections drawn from simple lived experiences that quietly hold something deeper beneath them.

One winter afternoon, I stood at the window watching my son outside, and something subtle shifted in me.
This is a story about presence. About staying. About what the nervous system learns when we do not leave ourselves in the middle of a moment.

If this resonates, you may also explore:
• The Scaffolding: A Hybrid Meditation
• Holding Everything: A Nervous System Yoga Nidra

Transcript

I watched my teenage son shoveling our neighbor's walkway yesterday. There was a lot of snow. I think we got 20 inches. We had blizzard conditions. We all had to go out and help. My son is going to be 15. And after he helped us with the stairs, He took a shovel and went across to the neighbor's house to help clear their walkway. And it was like a typical blizzardy day here in New Jersey. Lots of snowblowers going, People out and shoveling, But no one on the roads. The air was cold. There was still a bit of a flurry in the air, And it was windy. And I took a break from cleaning off our car, And I sat down in the garage with the garage door open, And I was just watching my son. I thought to myself, Wow, He's like a man. He's tall. He moves with purpose, You know, Working on the task at hand. And I just kind of watched him for a few minutes. And suddenly, As I was watching him, I could see him when he was little, Like right in front of my eyes, Maybe two years old, Four years old, Even up to six. His smaller hands, His wide smile, His voice was never-ending, Always talking and singing. It was the version of him where he would run to me with anything. And I had a moment of really missing that side of him, Man. I had a moment where the sadness began to really drift in. When my parents died, My son was only 10, And he took it really hard. There were years when he just disappeared. So anytime I see him out and about now, I just am so grateful. I'm so grateful. And I saw him while I was watching this little version of him, And how boisterous and chaotic and crazy he was, And so loving, So loving. And then his teenage self came back into focus while I was watching. And I realized just in that moment that both versions of my son were alive in him. We don't replace pieces of ourselves as we grow. We don't subtract. We don't take away parts of ourselves. We, In a way, Layer new pieces on, New pieces that we integrate. The younger versions of us, The things that we wanted when we were younger, The way we interacted with the world when we were younger, Those don't disappear. They integrate. The toddler, The teenager, The young adult, And all of it lives in the same body. I started wondering, What if the versions of us that we think we've outgrown are still alive in us? Preschooler, Child, Preteen, Teen, 20s, 30s, 40s, What if the versions of you that you think you've outgrown are still alive in you today? And yesterday, As the snow melted, Driveways were clean, The stairs were clean, The walkway was clean, And my son came back, Shovel in hand, And went into the house like it was nothing. Something in me felt steadier, Remembering that nothing we've been is ever really gone.