I spent years chasing the next season—summer break, holidays, even retirement—as if joy was always waiting just around the corner. Too often, those moments fell short of the anticipation. With time, I’ve learned the best days aren’t out ahead. Joy shows up in the ones we’re already living.
When schools closed and classrooms went online, I thought technology would carry us through. Laptops, webcams, and digital platforms promised connection, maybe even innovation. Instead, I stared at blank screens and muted microphones, unsure if anyone was really on the other side. Teaching became a strange mix of isolation and improvisation—part lesson plan, part troubleshooting call. I learned quickly that technology can support learning, but it cannot replace presence. The real work of teaching has never been about the tools in our hands, but the people on the other end.
These words have always been a source of comfort, a reassurance in life’s uncertainties. But that Wednesday afternoon, I would discover just how deeply I needed them.
On our last morning at sea, I watched a sunrise break through gray skies while an older couple walked by hand in hand. That simple scene broke through me. Back in our cabin, Becky and I shared coffee as the world began moving again. We ate a fancy brunch that felt both absurd and perfect—soups poured with flair, fruit towers, steak plated like crown jewels. Yet all I thought about were the pancakes we fed our kids twenty years ago. I’ve learned contentment grows in welcoming what’s present—not chasing some bigger, grander image of happiness.