There I was. Tucked alongside my then, three-year-old, preparing to teach a lesson, when a phrase spilled out of my mouth, “We can wait a little bit, or we can complain. I think waiting is the better choice.”

I heard my own voice echo back to me in slow motion.

Earlier that year, I had navigated a series of meetings to reach a consensus that I realized, deep down, I didn’t even believe in. I was obsessed with progress, and progress felt better than waiting a bit.

Like mother, like son.

I’ve found myself hurrying to get to a solution too many times to count. Too often, I choose productivity over pausing to check in with myself. I crave solutions, quickly moving past any discomfort I feel when I don’t have the answer instead of valuing being still. That quiet space is where the truth I know in my gut arises. But it takes time.

I hear my own voice echo as I teach myself while teaching my son, “Waiting is the better choice.”