The Only Thing That Exists:

Learning to Live in the Present Moment

I used to live everywhere except where I actually was. My body would be with my daughters, but my mind was three steps ahead—planning dinner while we played, mentally rehearsing bedtime routines during afternoon walks, calculating travel times while we sat together reading books. I thought this was productivity. I thought this was being prepared. I thought this was what responsible mothers do.

I was living in a future that didn't exist yet, avoiding a present that was the only thing that was real.

The Constant Escape

In my last post, I introduced you to The Manager—that part of me that had been running my life with military precision and exhausting control. But today I want to talk about what life actually felt like under her command, and how different everything looks now that I've learned to inhabit the present moment.

Before this awakening, I was always somewhere else. If we were at the park, I was mentally planning what we'd do next. If we were having lunch, I was thinking about naptime schedules. If we were reading bedtime stories, I was calculating whether we'd have time for baths and still get to bed on time.

I was constantly fleeing the present moment, especially if it wasn't unfolding according to my carefully crafted plans.

The present felt dangerous to me. What if I stayed here too long and forgot about all the things I needed to manage? What if I lingered in this moment and fell behind on my invisible schedule? What if I just... existed here without producing anything or moving toward the next thing?

So I resisted. I rushed. I managed my way through each day, barely touching down in any single moment.

The Disasters That Weren't

Looking back now, I can see how The Manager had convinced me that anything unplanned was a disaster. My baby not falling asleep immediately? Catastrophe. Running a few minutes late for preschool? Crisis. Dinner served ten minutes past my planned time? Failure.

Rain without rain jackets felt like the end of the world. My four-year-old walking slowly when we "needed" to be somewhere became a source of genuine stress. Everything had to be done NOW, on schedule, according to plan, or it felt like chaos.

I lived in a constant state of low-level emergency about things that weren't actually emergencies at all.

The irony is devastating when I think about it now: I was so busy trying to prevent tiny discomforts that I was missing the entire experience of raising my children. I was so focused on managing their lives efficiently that I wasn't actually living life with them.

The Restless In-Between

The moments that should have been the most precious—those unplanned pauses when nothing particular was happening—became unbearable to me. If there was a gap in the schedule, if we finished an activity earlier than expected, if we found ourselves with unstructured time, I felt restless and bored.

I couldn't just be with my daughters without an agenda. I couldn't sit in the quiet spaces between activities. I couldn't let time unfold naturally without filling it with the next planned thing.

Those beautiful, spacious moments that children live in so naturally—where they notice a flower, or want to watch clouds, or suddenly decide to dance in the living room—felt like interruptions to me. Delays. Deviations from the plan.

I was teaching my daughters, without meaning to, that the present moment wasn't enough. That being together without doing something productive wasn't valuable. That spontaneity was inconvenient.

What I Was Really Resisting

Now I understand what I was actually running from: uncertainty. The present moment is inherently unpredictable. You can't control what might emerge when you really settle into what's happening right now. You might feel something you don't want to feel, need something you don't want to need, discover something about yourself or your children that doesn't fit your carefully managed narrative.

The future, on the other hand, can be planned. It can be controlled (or so we tell ourselves). It can be perfect in our imagination in ways the present never can be.

But here's what I've learned: the future isn't real. The past is already gone. The present moment—this breath, this sensation, this interaction with my daughter right now—is literally the only thing that exists.

Everything else is happening in my mind.

The Shift

The awakening began when I started noticing my resistance. Instead of unconsciously fleeing to the next thing, I began to catch myself in the act of leaving. I started asking: Where am I going? What am I avoiding? What would happen if I just... stayed here?

The first few times I tried to fully inhabit a present moment with my daughters, it felt almost physically uncomfortable. My mind kept reaching for the next item on my mental to-do list, the next thing to plan, the next potential problem to solve.

But gradually, something magical began to happen. When I stopped resisting what was actually occurring—when I accepted that yes, it's raining and no, we don't have jackets, and that's okay—everything became simpler.

Instead of experiencing "disasters," I started experiencing reality. It's raining. We might be a couple of minutes late. My daughter wants to walk slowly and look at flowers. My baby is taking longer to fall asleep tonight.

These aren't emergencies. They're just... life happening.

Learning to Respond Instead of React

Now, instead of having predetermined reactions to unplanned events, I respond in real time to what's actually occurring. Rain without jackets becomes an opportunity to feel water on our skin. Running late becomes a chance to practice flexibility and discover that most people are understanding. A slowly walking child becomes an invitation to see the world through her eyes.

I've learned to trust that I can handle whatever the present moment brings without having planned for every possibility in advance. I can solve problems as they arise. I can respond to my children's needs as they emerge. I can navigate life from presence rather than from planning.

This doesn't mean I don't make practical preparations—I still pack snacks and remember car seats and generally know what our day will look like. But I hold those plans lightly now. They're suggestions, not commandments.

The Peace of What Is

There's such peace in accepting what is instead of constantly resisting what isn't according to plan. When I stopped fighting reality, reality became much more pleasant to inhabit.

My daughters feel this shift too. They're more relaxed, more creative, more connected. When they know I'm actually present with them—not mentally three steps ahead—they settle into themselves differently. They trust that this moment is enough, that they are enough, that we don't always need to be rushing toward the next thing.

I'm learning to love the pauses, the gaps, the unstructured moments. That restlessness I used to feel has transformed into curiosity: What wants to emerge in this space? What are my daughters noticing that I might have missed? What is this moment trying to teach us?

The Only Thing That Exists

The present moment is all we ever really have. It's where love lives, where connection happens, where joy emerges spontaneously. It's where my daughters are growing up—not in some future plan or past memory, but right here, right now, in this breath, this laugh, this muddy hand reaching for mine.

I spent so many precious moments with them while being somewhere else entirely. But now I know: this is it. This Tuesday afternoon, this messy kitchen, this sudden rainstorm, this sleepy bedtime cuddle that's running twenty minutes past schedule—this is life.

And it's not a disaster. It's not something to be managed or improved or rushed through.

It's something to be lived.

What would change in your relationship with your children if you could fully inhabit the present moments you share with them? What are you resisting about what's actually happening right now?

If this resonates with you, you might also enjoy my previous post about Meeting The Manager.