I used to be one of those people who believed in having a plan. You know, the lists, the checkboxes, the early alarms for absolutely everything—even on weekends. I believed that the more I planned, the more “in charge” I’d feel about life. Like it was a math problem, and if I just got the variables right, I’d win at existing.
And then I had a kid.
Now, don’t get me wrong—parenthood hasn’t made me lose my mind. It just made it loudly clear that the whole idea of control is mostly a joke that adults tell themselves to feel safe. Because there’s no schedule that accounts for your child deciding they need to wear fuzzy cat ears to church. Or that somehow, without a single plan, a lazy walk turns into one of the most unexpectedly perfect days of your year. And no, there was no Pinterest board for that.
We ended up inside that cathedral by accident. She wanted to “see the angels,” which I thought was a metaphor, but nope—turns out she meant actual statues. So we wandered in, no snacks, no agenda, no idea what we were doing. And there we were, sitting on a wooden bench, sunlight pouring in like someone up there was in a particularly good mood. She leaned over the pew, whispering something to herself, totally mesmerized. I looked around, and it hit me: nothing about this moment was planned. And that’s exactly why it felt sacred.
See, life has a way of punking you when you’re too focused on the checklist. All the spreadsheets in the world won’t prepare you for the joy of something unplanned hitting you square in the heart. It’s wild how often we trade spontaneity for a sense of control that’s honestly more illusion than security. We overbook, overthink, overprotect—and in the process, we under-feel. Meanwhile, my daughter is over here teaching me that letting go might be the most responsible adult thing I’ve ever done.
That day didn’t solve world hunger. It didn’t even involve ice cream, which is rare for us. But it felt like something important happened: I stopped trying to be the director of the movie and just became part of the scene. And it was a good one. Quiet. Glowing. Completely unscripted. A snapshot of two people who had nowhere else to be, which is exactly where they needed to be.
So no, I don’t always know where we’re headed. But I’m slowly learning to trust the detours. To say yes more often. To not panic when the day unravels, because sometimes that’s when the real stuff happens. And when in doubt, I ask my kid. She always seems to know which way the magic is hiding—even if she’s wearing cat ears and calling Jesus “the nice statue guy.”
Turns out she’s not just funny—she’s a philosopher in glitter sneakers.
