This morning, my four-year-old daughter, Ella, taught me something beautiful about relationships. And it began with a moment that hurt my feelings.

Around 7:30 a.m., Ella woke up crying. When I went to pick her up, she pushed back and said, “I don’t want Mommy. I want Daddy.”

Ouch.

I would be lying if I said those words didn’t sting. I’m the parent who handles most of her daily needs. I take her to medical appointments, arrange her activities, take her to preschool, bring her to the park, and spend much of my day caring for her. And yet, in that moment, she wanted Daddy.

So I took her to our bedroom, where Daddy was sleeping, and the two of them snuggled in bed together.

I noticed the hurt I felt when she said, “I don’t want Mommy,” but rather than allowing myself to remain caught in it, I became curious. What was happening here? What was Ella looking for that she wasn’t finding in that moment with me?

A few hours later, I received an answer I hadn’t expected.

Sometimes Love Means Slowing Down

Around 10 a.m., Ella was crying again. I went to check on her and discovered that she had woken up wanting to snuggle with Daddy, but he was in the shower. She was standing near the shower door, trying to open it, asking for him.

I approached her and asked, “Do you want to snuggle with Mommy?” This time, she let me pick her up. I lay down with her in bed, and she rested her head on my chest, settling comfortably into my arms. Ella’s hugs and snuggles have a way of melting every single person in our family, and that moment was no exception.

“Do you want me to tickle your back?” I asked.

“Yes.”

So I gently tickled her back, enjoying every moment.

“Do you want me to tickle your arm?”

“Yes.”

I tickled her arm.

“Do you want me to tickle your leg?”

She extended her little leg toward me.

And there she was, completely content, resting against my chest while I gave her the affection she had been seeking. It was such a simple moment, but it was delightful for both of us, not just her.

I spend so much of my day meeting Ella’s needs and doing things she enjoys. But I began to recognize that, in the constant movement of daily responsibilities, I might sometimes overlook the importance of meeting her in the exact way she wants to connect.

Ella loves snuggles, and she wakes up later than I do. Her dad enjoys slow mornings and physical affection, so those moments fit naturally into their time together. I love snuggling with Ella, too, but I’m often moving from one responsibility to the next, thinking about what needs to be done. When she wakes up, I usually give her kisses and begin getting her ready for the day.

And as I lay there giving her the snuggles she wanted, I realized something.

I could spend an entire day doing things for someone and still miss an opportunity to be present with them in the way that matters most to them.

Not because I don’t love them.

Not because I’m failing them.

But because sometimes the demands of life become louder than the quiet invitations to connect.

The Twenty Minutes I Never Forgot

As I held Ella, feeling as though we were both melting into that moment, a childhood memory came back to me.

When I was young, I loved playing soccer with my brother and his friends. Most of the children I played with were boys, and I was the goalie. And I was a very good goalie, if I may say so myself!

One day, my father saw us playing and decided to join us. He played with us for perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes.

That was it.

But that day remains one of the happiest moments of my childhood. I remember wanting him to come back and play with us again.

He never did. Life was busy, with work and responsibilities that needed his attention. Yet decades later, those few minutes are still with me.

Not because my father did something extraordinary.

But because he entered my world.

For those few minutes, something that mattered to me became something he was willing to participate in. He wasn’t asking me to stop playing soccer and do something he preferred. He joined me in something I loved, and that made me feel connected to him.

I wonder how many of us have memories like that: a parent who sat down and listened to us talk about something we loved, someone who joined us in an activity they wouldn’t normally choose, a person who took a genuine interest in something that mattered to us. Sometimes those moments stay with us for a lifetime.

Entering Someone Else’s World

This experience also made me reflect on my relationships with my older children, Max and Katie, and how many times the demands of life had occupied so much of my attention that I missed opportunities to connect with them in ways that mattered to them.

Max enjoys video games. They’ve never been something I naturally gravitated toward, except for Super Mario Bros. when I was a child. I remember sitting down to play with him once, and we had a lot of fun, even though I had absolutely no clue what I was doing. He was very patient, showing me how to play and teaching me the game. Now I wonder how meaningful it might have been for him if I had occasionally shown more interest in playing with him.

Not because I needed to become someone who loves video games.

Not because I needed to pretend to enjoy something I didn’t.

But because I love Max.

And sometimes, loving someone means being curious about the things that bring them joy.

That curiosity doesn’t mean giving up the boundaries I’ve set. I have rules around screen time and video games in our home, and I don’t allow unlimited access. Those rules protect my children, and they protect me, too. I can be interested in what Max loves while still holding the limits I believe in.

But then I remembered something else. There were several occasions when Max was outside playing basketball in our driveway.

Now, let me make something clear: I am a terrible basketball player. And I mean terrible! For some inexplicable reason, whenever I throw the basketball, my legs kick out in the most ridiculous way. I have absolutely no idea why my body believes kicking my legs will improve my shot, but apparently, that’s the strategy it has chosen. One time, our neighbor across the street even came over and sarcastically said, “Wow, I’m impressed!” I’m sure he was. Just not for the reasons a professional basketball player would hope.

But here’s what I remember most about those moments. Sometimes I would be inside the house, busy with several responsibilities, and I would look outside and see Max shooting hoops. Instead of continuing with everything I needed to do, I went outside. I watched him play for a moment, then asked if I could join him.

He never said no. Even knowing what a terrible basketball player I was, he never hesitated to welcome me into his world.

So we played basketball together. Max teased me about my unusual shooting technique, and we laughed. We had the greatest time, and I could tell he was enjoying himself just as much as I was.

For those moments, the responsibilities inside the house could wait. I wasn’t thinking about what needed to be cleaned, what appointment needed to be scheduled, or what else was waiting for my attention. I was simply outside, playing basketball with my son.

I had entered his world.

And the beautiful thing was that I didn’t need to be good at basketball to connect with him.

I didn’t need to share his talent.

I didn’t even need to understand why my legs insisted on participating in every shot.

I just needed to be willing to join him.

Katie gave me a similar gift.

A while ago, she fell in love with Pirates of the Caribbean and really wanted me to watch the movies with her. I could see how much she loved them and how excited she was to share them with me, so I agreed to watch all five.

What I didn’t realize was that I had just signed up for a pirate marathon: one movie every other day. By the third movie, I was dreaming about pirates.

But we had so much fun. We made homemade popcorn, and Katie created a special soda drink for us to sip while we watched.

What I noticed afterward was that the thing Katie kept talking about was that her mom had watched all five movies with her. She still remembers it.

And we both enjoyed it.

Looking back, I realize the joy wasn’t necessarily in the basketball or the movies themselves. It was in the connection: the laughter, the teasing, the shared experience, and the willingness to participate in something that mattered to them.

Putting this together with the memory of my father playing soccer with me, I recognize something important.

Connection isn’t about doing something perfectly. It’s about showing sincere interest in what matters to another person.

And I think there’s an important lesson in the contrast between my experiences with Max. With video games, I can see room to be more curious. With basketball, I can remember the opportunities I embraced.

I don’t need to turn either experience into a judgment about myself. I can appreciate what I did well and learn from what I might have done differently.

Growth doesn’t require us to criticize the person we used to be. It invites us to become more intentional with the person we are today.

But there’s something else I want to share.

The Moments That Don’t Come Back

Some opportunities never return.

Many of us wait for grand events to experience joy. We imagine that meaningful memories are created during vacations, celebrations, or extraordinary occasions. But so often, joy is waiting for us in the smallest moments, and sometimes we don’t fully recognize their value until we no longer have access to them.

Today, the basketball hoop is still there. But Max no longer lives here, and the driveway is quiet.

And guess what is still there?

The dishes in the sink.

The laundry waiting to be done.

The bills to pay.

The phone calls to make.

All those responsibilities that once seemed so urgent are still here. But the boy who used to shoot hoops in our driveway is now a young man living his own life.

And when I think about my childhood, the soccer field is still there in the town where I grew up. But my father is no longer with us, and the little girl who was such a great goalie hasn’t stood in front of a goalpost in decades.

The places remain. The responsibilities remain. But the people, the seasons of life, and the opportunities to share certain moments change. Sometimes they disappear before we realize how precious they were.

I’m grateful my father paused his responsibilities that day and entered my world.

I’m grateful Max welcomed me into his.

I’m grateful Katie wanted me to join her world of pirates.

I’m grateful Ella wanted me to pause and snuggle.

And I’m grateful for every ridiculous basketball shot, every teasing comment, and every moment of laughter we shared.

Those moments filled me with joy, and I don’t want to become so occupied with life’s endless responsibilities that I consistently miss opportunities to create more of them.

Because the dishes will be there tomorrow.

The laundry will return.

Another bill will arrive.

But the opportunity to share a particular moment with someone we love may not.

That doesn’t mean we should neglect our responsibilities. It means we can learn to recognize when something more meaningful is inviting us to pause. Sometimes all it takes is curiosity about what matters to another person, and a willingness to step into their world.

And this isn’t something we can practice only with our children. We can bring this same curiosity into our friendships, romantic relationships, and other meaningful connections.

We can ask someone about the music they love.

We can join them in an activity they enjoy.

We can listen when they talk about something they’re passionate about, even when it’s a subject we know very little about.

We can allow ourselves to be beginners, to look a little ridiculous, and to laugh at ourselves.

We don’t have to adopt every interest of the people we love. But sometimes, stepping into their world for twenty minutes can create a memory that lasts far longer.

Sometimes love looks like putting aside our to-do list, stepping outside, and shooting a basketball terribly.

And sometimes that’s more than enough.

But stepping into someone’s world is not the same as disappearing into it. Next week, I’ll share how to tell the difference between stretching yourself for someone you love and abandoning yourself.

A question to reflect on:

When was the last time you stepped into the world of someone you love, not because you felt obligated, but because you genuinely wanted to connect with them?

Did this speak to you?

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