By Kari McBride
I remember my daughter’s first steps like they were yesterday.
After 18 months of appointments, hospital stays, and therapy sessions, those little feet finally took off. Watching her swagger and sway down the hall, I was filled with overwhelming joy and excitement. It was a moment I knew I wanted to hold onto forever.
People often say, “Savor this moment; it won’t happen again.” At the time, I was pretty sure I understood what this meant.
My daughter is a teenager now. Recently, she insisted that we needed a bird feeder to feed all the birds in the neighborhood. After some back-and-forth negotiating, I gave in. We now have bird feeders in both the front yard and the backyard.
I was convinced this would become just another chore on my already long to-do list. But instead, it has become something else entirely.
There is something almost soothing about watching the birds come and go. A dove lands on the grass. A mockingbird hops along the edge. Each bird has its own little personality.
And for a few quiet moments, I find myself standing still. Watching. Breathing. Noticing.
In those instants, the pain and uncertainty that usually fill my days start to loosen their grip.
These moments don’t last long. The birds fly away. Reality draws me back inward.
And while the pain may not go away, this brief reprieve gives me something to hold onto.
In a life that is now shaped by chronic pain, both my daughter’s and mine, these are the small experiences I’m learning to savor.
They won’t all be as big as my daughter’s first steps. After all, there is only one “first.” But I am starting to notice the smaller moments now. The ones that pass quickly—unless I choose to stop and see them.
Maybe this is what it means to savor a moment.
—by Kari McBride
