My trip home from Atlanta was an adventure I did not ask for.
Twice, I found myself somewhere I could only describe as nowhere.
And both times, I had my toddlers with me, their little hands in mine.
“Mummy, where are we?”
“Mummy, call Daddy for help.”
I wanted to laugh. I wanted to cry.
“Daddy doesn’t want to be disturbed right now,” I told them. He is busy with meetings at church plus let him take a break for now, since mummy is here to help for now. Not sure if they understood my answer, because kids see dads as super heroes, but, I had to say something to their ever inquisitive minds and itch ears.
“But Mummy, we saw Daddy in church.”
“Yes, I know. But Daddy said he would rather not be disturbed.”
So it was just us.
I tried Uber. The Ubers would not come. I am used to driving my own car, not navigating unfamiliar places through an app. So I thought, Perhaps I should take a taxi.
Then I thought, Maybe the bus.
The bus took us somewhere that felt even more like nowhere.
My battery was at two percent.
For a moment, I felt helpless.
All I could do was pray.
“Children, pray.”
And they did.
I told them, “I know you are holy. God hears your prayers.”
Somehow, we made it through.Eventually, uber worked out and got us safely to our destination.
It happened twice, almost back-to-back, and I remember thinking, Why can’t I just stay in one place with these children?
But perhaps that was the point.
I had not seen my children in a while. I had just come through military life and everything else that had demanded my attention, and I felt almost obligated to give them every good thing a mother could give her children.
I wanted to get them everything and make them comfortable as much as I could and most of what they needed had to take us to destinations, much of which I seriously didn’t have much time or memory to process. I learnt in this journey places to change a lot with new constructions and routes, so ask questions even in a city you once lived.
Like I said I wanted to give them everything within my reach.
So I checked the boxes.
Breakfast.
Clean ears.
Trimmed nails.
Baths.
Hugs.
Every little thing.
I was trying to make up for the mommy duties that had been placed on pause.
At the airport, something unexpected happened.
I met a friend in the disabled line, and we started talking.
Then I looked ahead.
There she was.
My cousin.
The cousin I had dreamed about seeing two nights earlier.
She is a medical doctor. We went to school together. We are almost the same age; she is only two years younger.
And she looked beautiful.
Calm.
Confident.
Unbothered.
She spoke loudly enough for love to travel across the distance between us.
“How are you? Are you doing okay? It has been a minute.”
And something beautiful happened.
She did not ask about my children.
She did not ask about my husband.
And I did not ask about hers.
Not because our families did not matter.
They mattered.
But for once, we did not reduce one another to the usual questions.
Did you get married?
How many children do you have?
Are you still married?
What happened?
Did you make it?
Instead, we simply stood there knowing:
We are still here.
We made it.
That was enough.
Her children were behind her. I know she has three boys, a little older than mine. But neither of us needed a report card on motherhood.
We were two women who had grown up together, separated by life, and somehow found ourselves standing in the same airport again.
We talked about our gray hairs.
We laughed about aging.
And I told her how beautiful she still looked.
She laughed and said, “We are aging every day, but beautifully.”
And I thought about that.
Maybe age really is a matter of perspective.
Maybe life is too.
We were not standing there comparing accomplishments.
We were simply grateful that we were still alive to see each other.
Eventually, we had to separate.
She was going toward one gate.
I was going toward another.
We never got the hug we wanted.
Later, from the plane, I called her.
“I wish we had gotten that hug.”
She had just boarded too.
And I cried a little.
Not because I was sad.
Because memories have a way of becoming tears when they meet gratitude.
Before I reached my gate, I spoke to another person in the disabled line.
He told me about his injury and his fracture. He was hoping for relief and using a scooter.
I looked at him and laughed.
“I have a scooter too, it make walking with the pain not so noticeable. lol and we both laughed,
We laughed together.
And suddenly, I realized something.
Even the word worse is a matter of perspective.
Someone else can look at your life and think you have it better.
You can look at someone else’s life and think they have it better.
But everyone is carrying something.
Everyone has a story.
Everyone is trying to make it to the next gate.
And then I thought about my cousin.
Yes, she passed her examinations.
Yes, she has been practicing medicine for years.
I haven’t.
But I did not sit down and allow disappointment to become my identity.
I went into the military.
I worked.
I endured.
I learned.
I survived.
I built resilience where I could have built resentment.
And now I can stand beside someone who appears to be farther ahead and say:
I do not feel lesser.
Do you know why?
Because I kept moving.
That is what I have learned about life.
You will meet old classmates.
You will meet cousins.
You will meet people who seem to have achieved more than you.
Some will have marriages.
Some will have children.
Some will have degrees.
Some will have careers.
Some will have houses, titles, money, beauty, recognition.
And sometimes you will feel tempted to hide.
But don’t.
Life is not a competition.
When you meet someone from your past, you do not need to prove that you won.
You only need to know that you are still walking.
Ask yourself:
Am I where I need to be?
Am I where God wants me to be?
Am I doing okay?
If the answer is yes, then lift your head.
And if the answer is not yet, keep moving.
Because the story is not over.
At JFK, I almost missed my flight.
I had spent so much time making sure my children were okay that I had nearly forgotten about myself.
I checked everything.
Their ears.
Their nails.
Their breakfast.
Their bags.
One last hug.
One last kiss.
One last look.
I cried.
They were happy.
They were content.
But I wasn’t.
I wanted more time.
More baths.
More mornings.
More little conversations.
More mommy duties.
Because motherhood had been on pause, and I wanted to press play again.
But I know I will see them again.
Christmas.
Thanksgiving.
Halloween.
Another holiday.
Another weekend.
Somehow, somewhere, we will work it out.
And then came the final lesson.
I was put in a wheelchair, but there was nobody available to push me.
I looked at my cane.
I thought about the little strength I had left.
And I said:
Use what you have.
So I got up.
I took my cane.
One step.
Another.
Another.
I kept plunging forward.
Three people behind me eventually missed their flights.
I arrived at my gate about five minutes before departure, panting.
This time, I told them I was military.
“I had to hurry with this cane,” I said.
They looked at me and said, almost gently,
“You don’t have to hurry with the cane anymore. When you get down, we’ll put you in a wheelchair.”
And I smiled.
Because I had already made it.
I had used the little strength I had.
And sometimes, that is all God asks of us.
Not everything.
Just the strength we have today.
When I finally sat on that plane, I closed my eyes.
And I prayed.
“Lord, thank You.
You saw my strength.
You saw my zeal.
You saw me trying.
You saw me taking care of these children.
You saw every wrong turn.
Every bus.
Every failed Uber.
Every prayer.
Every tear.
Every step with the cane.
I don’t know whether You blessed me because I was trying to be a good mother.
But I know that I felt You carrying me.”
My trip to Atlanta was never just a trip to Atlanta.
It was a reminder.
I am still moving.
I am still becoming.
I am still here.
And perhaps that is the greatest achievement of all.
So if you meet me tomorrow, or if I meet you years from now, please don’t ask me first what I have accumulated.
Don’t ask me whether my life looks exactly the way I planned it.
Don’t ask me to compare my chapter with yours.
Just ask me:
“How are you?”
And if we are both still standing, let us smile.
Let us say:
“We made it.”
Then, if there is time, let us tell each other the story.
Until then;
keep moving.
By Joan.A Roberts
