I was recently let go from my job. It brought up a lot of things for me. The usual, concerns about finances and healthcare, and also a few things out of the ordinary. I wouldn’t have thought losing a job would mean losing part of my identity, but it certainly feels that way.

At bedtime the other night, my son Teddy told me, “Dad, I love you… even though you’re boring.”

I kissed him on the forehead, and couldn’t disagree. I kept thinking about how I can find a better balance between being the coach and the referee; in my relationships with my kids, and in my life. And then it leapt out at me, all of a sudden. A position I’d totally missed thinking about. I’d forgotten how to be the player.

When did I stop playing pretend?

It’s been hard to write recently. I think it may be as simple as having gotten into a routine and omitting dedicated time to write. Getting to this point — fingers on the keys, mind directed to one singular focus and thread of thought — involved quite an elaborate dance: getting fully dressed, finding my keyboard, ignoring the half-done household chore I abandoned last night for sleep, and turning on the kettle for coffee. I bet it’ll be ready halfway through one of these upcoming sentences. But wait — come back, mind! — I’m now HERE to write. It’s happening. And it almost feels like I’ve been in this moment for hours and couldn’t be asked to do anything else, ever again. I’ve gone from doing a puttering polka into an aimed adagio.

A friend once told me he noticed how I was careful with opening and closing doors — treating them with care, and aiming for quietness. It’s a thought I hold dear, because it was one of the first times I remember feeling truly seen in my adult life. He went on to wax philosophic, talking about it as “a good way to see who is practicing everyday mindfulness”. I think about this a lot.