Can this wait?

Dear fellow wanderer,

I've been asking myself the same question lately, over and over. A little mantra I didn't plan but can't seem to stop repeating.

Can this wait?

Not because I've suddenly become patient. I haven't. But because I'm trying to pay more attention to my reactions. To notice when I'm already three steps ahead, thinking about what needs fixing instead of what's actually happening in front of me.

I'm entering a new chapter. One where I want to stop, even just for a second, and ask: Can responding to this text wait until after breakfast? Can I let the laundry sit for one more hour? Can checking Slack wait until I actually start my work day? Can this email wait?

I know I'm not alone in this. We're all living in some version of a high-pressure cycle where the expectation is to respond immediately. I deleted Instagram from my phone weeks ago because I couldn't trust myself not to reply the second I saw a notification. When I logged in on my computer a few days ago, I felt that familiar guilt creep in. All those unanswered messages sitting there.

But here's what I've been noticing: the expectations have shifted. There's this unspoken rule now to always be there. And yes, that's wonderful. But somewhere along the way, the meaning changed. Being there used to mean showing up when it mattered. Now it means being available every moment. Ready to respond. As if nothing else in our lives could possibly need us more than our phones do.

I've overheard younger people in their twenties saying things like "they left me on read," and I get it. It's disappointing. But when did we all agree the expectation would be this high?

I can say I've gotten upset about this with my friends too. But we're all human. We're all trying to do our best.

And I think if others can wait to respond because life is being lived on the other side of the phone, then maybe I can wait too. Maybe I can live the life that's right here in front of me.

Isn't that the point?

I've been testing this question out. Asking it in small moments throughout my day.

This morning, I looked at my daughter in a way that felt like seeing her for the first time.

She was glowing. Playing with Wiki Stix, shaping and reshaping them while listening to a story. Her voice was soft and sweet as she turned to show me what she'd made, proud of her creation. Happy to be there, making something out of nothing. No sense of time or worry about being anywhere else.

This morning, watching her, I was fascinated. By her joy. By her creativity.

And then I realized something that made me feel a little ashamed: I don't do this as often as I used to.

When she was a baby, I was all over her. I couldn't get tired of seeing her, of admiring her. I wanted to be everything for that baby.

But as she's grown, I've felt myself pulled in too many directions. Answering messages. Checking notifications. Being available to everyone except the person right in front of me.

Maybe that's the real shame. Not that I need breaks. But that I've been giving my immediacy, my full attention, to my phone instead of to her.

So today I tried something different. I just sat there next to her. No phone. No to-do list. No book. Fully engaged in the moment.

And it was magical.

I've been reading Emma Gannon on what success actually means, and it's making me rethink everything. She writes about redefining success on your own terms. And I'm starting to think that for me, success might look like being slower. More present. Willing to let some things wait so the important things don't have to.

My daughter will only need me like this for a few more years. And then I'll miss the days when she wanted to spend a night on the couch with me. Or just sit beside me, showing me what she made, her voice soft and proud.

So yes. I'll keep asking myself.

Can this wait?

Most things can wait. But this? Her at seven, creating something out of nothing, wanting me next to her? This won't wait for me to be ready.