While You Still Can

A thrift store. A text from my mom.

And suddenly everything that actually matters became very clear.

This one's about time. Presence. And the people you love.

While you still can.

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My mom sent me a text last week. We had spent the day together, just the two of us. A couple of months back we found this thrift store nearby and had been meaning to go back. So we did. Walking around, looking at things, we didn't find anything, but we did decide to stop by TJ Maxx, which was right nearby, and picked up a few items. Such good bargains, honestly. Nothing really fancy, nothing planned. Just us enjoying each other's company. And when I got home, she texted me. Thank you for coming and spending time with me. I sat there with that for a minute, because of course, of course, I want to spend time with my mom. She's my best friend. But something about seeing it written out like that, so simple, so sincere, just hit me differently than expected. It made me think about time, about how quietly it moves, about how we can be so busy with living our lives that we forget to fully show up for people who made those lives possible. Hi, welcome back to Meanwhile. I'm Dominique. Episode five. This one is about the people, the ones who have always been there, the ones we sometimes forget to slow down for. Let's dive in. So let me tell you about my mom first. We talk every single day. We see each other at least once a week. She is my best friend and my confidant, the person I call when everything is falling apart, and when everything is going right, and every unremarkable Tuesday in between. A few years back, just before COVID, we started something completely by accident, organically, the way the best things always happen. We both like to walk. We both like to be active. And one day we just started walking and talking on the phone at the same time. Even though we weren't in the same place, it became our thing, our walking call sessions. I can't overstate what these calls mean to me. We talk about everything, how we slept, what we have planned, what's going on in the world, everything under the sun. And there's something about being in motion, walking, breathing fresh air, moving through the world that makes conversation feel more open, more honest, more real. Like walls coming down a little bit. You say things on a walk you wouldn't say sitting still, potentially. That's a meanwhile, that quiet ritual that doesn't make the highlight real, but is quietly one of the most meaningful parts of my week. The kind of thing you don't realize you'd miss until you imagine it not being there. And then your chest tightens a little. You hold it a little tighter. My dad, we have a different rhythm. We don't talk every day, but we connect in ways that feel just as deep through trips, through adventures, small moments that become big memories. One of my favorites was going to the Formula One race in Miami together a couple of years back. We made a little trip out of it, and I remember just watching him, being happy, laughing, cracking his dry jokes that only he thinks are funny. He once told me about someone he used to work with named Matthew, and goes, but they call him Matt, and absolutely lost it. Like genuinely cracked himself up. And I just sat there loving every moment of it. Because that's what small moments do. They show you who someone really is. Someone who finds joy in the simple things. That's a gift. That's something I never want to take for granted. Then there's my husband. His family lives abroad. He left home to go to college here and built an entire life for himself in this country. It's beautiful, it really is. But it's also bittersweet in a way that I don't think he fully felt until recently. He told me he feels the distance more now than he did in his 20s. I think that's so deeply human. When you're young, you're so focused on building your career, your independence, your future, that you don't always feel the weight of what you left behind. And then something shifts and you feel it quietly at first and then all at once. He stays connected through a group chat, which I'm also a part of, sharing photos, hellos, updates throughout the week. He calls more consistently on weekends, and it works, but it's not the same as being there. He knows that. And I think sitting with that knowledge is something he carries more now than ever. So this week we had a conversation. I told him, go spend Christmas with them. It's been many, many years, and yes, with our fur babies and family birthdays and all moving pieces of the holidays, it gets complicated. But I told him, do it now, while you have the chance, while they're here. Not to be morbid, but because it's true. Time is fleeting, and sometimes we need someone to give us permission to prioritize the people we love most. To say the logistics can be figured out. The presence cannot be replaced. And here's something I've been thinking about a lot lately. There's this shift that happens quietly. Somewhere in your 30s, you start noticing things, small things. Going to appointments with your parents, loved ones, being more present, checking in more. It sneaks up on you. There's no single moment where everything clicks. It's more of a slow dawning, a quiet realization that creeps in between that everyday moment. And one day you just feel it. The roles are reversing. The people who took care of you, who showed up for every scraped knee, every heartbreak, every bad day, are now the ones who need you to show up. In small ways at first, a phone call to check in, going along to an appointment, noticing things you wouldn't have noticed before, and then in bigger ways, depending on the season of life you're all in. Nobody really talks about this. This in-between of parenting and being parented. This quiet shift where you go from being someone's child to also being someone's caretaker. It happens gradually and then all at once. It changes something in you. Suddenly, the invincibility you projected onto them, the version of your parents or guardians, loved ones that felt permanent and unchanging and always just there, starts to soften around the edges. You see them differently, more fully, more humanly, as people who are aging, who are navigating their own in-between, who have their own fears and hopes and quietly passing time. Aging is a blessing. I truly believe that. Every year is a gift, but it's also an adjustment. For them, for you, it's okay to hold both of those things at the same time. I think about this more than I let on. The preciousness of the right now, of having them here, of being able to pick up the phone and hear their voice, of being able to show up for them the way they've always showed up for me. And I don't want to waste a single moment of it. Here's the thing I keep coming back to. We are so conditioned to plan, to think about the future, chase the next thing, the next milestone, the next version of success that we think will finally make us feel complete. I've talked about this before on meanwhile. It's about the in-between, the present moments. We cannot lose sight of what we already have while we're busy chasing what we don't have. Because here's what I know. At the end of the day, at the actual end of the day and end of life, it's not about the achievements. It's not the money. It's not the titles or the milestones. It's the people, the conversations, the walking phone calls, the dry jokes about a man named Matthew who went by Matt. The text that says, thank you for coming. That's what connects us. That's what makes us human. That's what we carry. And sometimes we get so wrapped up in our own world, our own dreams, timelines, our own carefully constructed plans, that we forget the people who made that world possible, who made us possible. So here's what I want to leave you with. Reach out to someone you love. Today, not tomorrow, not when things slow down, not when the timing feels right. Today. It doesn't have to be grand, it doesn't have to be planned. It can be a text, a quick call, a walking session, even if you're not in the same city, a visit if you can manage it. Whatever version of showing up looks like, do it. I want to be clear, this isn't about just parents. It's about anyone you love. Siblings, friends, chosen family, the people who know you and chose you anyway. Let them know you're thinking of them. Don't let too much time pass where you'll look back and wish you've said more, done more, shown up more. I know not everyone has this. I know some relationships are complicated. Some people aren't here anymore. Some doors feel closed. I hold space for that as well. This isn't about pressure. This is about intention. It's about choosing, actively choosing the people who matter while you still can. Time is precious. And the text my mom sent me last week, I'm going to keep it. I'm going to read it on days when I forget what matters. Because it's a reminder, a simple, beautiful reminder. Thank you for coming and spending time with me. Meanwhile, who are you going to reach out to today? I'm Dominique. This is Meanwhile, and until the next Meanwhile.