On Wednesday, I said goodbye to our daughter as she left for summer school. The emotions hit harder than I expected. Maybe it’s not that they were new, but that this time, I was truly present enough to feel them fully.
We always think we have more time.
When our children are babies, we dream of the day we’ll get a full night’s sleep. When they finally sleep, we dream of the day they’ll eat without coaxing. When they eat, we long for the day they’ll start school. And when they start school, we look forward to the day they’ll become self-sufficient.
And then, one day, they leave home and we find ourselves dreaming of the day they’ll come back.
This time, it was my husband who took her, clearing his schedule, carving out time from his full calendar to accompany her on this rite of passage. A quiet act of love that spoke volumes. And though I wasn’t the one on the plane, I felt the ache of distance just the same.
Reading It Goes So Fast by Mary Louise Kelly brought all of this into sharper focus. In the book, she documents her eldest son’s final year of high school. A year she approached with awareness, intention, and the ache of knowing it was the last lap before everything changed. Her reflections made me look more closely at my own recent moments: the way my daughter insisted on packing her bags, the way she lingered in the kitchen longer than usual, the way she hugged me before she walked away. Ordinary things, but now they feel like anchors.
It’s a cycle filled with beauty: sweet memories, fleeting moments, and profound encounters. And yet, as humans, we’re always looking forward. Always anticipating. Always reaching for what’s next.
But what if we stopped?
What if we stopped waiting for the next thing, and started noticing what’s right in front of us?
The truth is, the hard times don’t last forever. The good times don’t either. And joy isn’t a guarantee. It’s an opportunity. It will return. Will I be paying attention when it does?
Because it all goes so fast.
The photo I snapped says it all: me, looking exhausted; her, doing that classic teenage pose, totally unfazed by the emotional weight of the moment. It’s funny and perfect. It captures the gap between the heartache of letting go and the lightness with which she leaps forward into the world. It also reminds me that there’s room for humour in these moments too. Maybe especially in these moments.
And this doesn’t just apply to parenting.
As I sat with these feelings, I realised how much they mirror the journey of leadership. The best leaders I know aren’t just focused on results or what's next on the roadmap. They’re aware, present, and attuned to the now. They notice the quiet moments: the hesitant voice in a meeting, the team member who’s struggling, the small wins that get overlooked in the rush toward the next big thing.
Leadership, like parenting, is full of transitions. Seasons change. People grow. Teams evolve. And if we’re not intentional, if we’re always chasing the next milestone, we risk missing the very moments that matter most.
So today, I’m reminding myself to slow down. To be present . To build awareness. To lead with attention.
Because it all goes so fast.
And all I want now is to slow it down. With presence, with intention, and with gratitude for this moment. This one, precious moment.
