The Balance Between

This morning’s cup of coffee was black, strong enough to raise an army, exactly the way my mom makes it. There’s something about being home that brings back the simplest rituals, the ones you forget you miss until they’re right in front of you again.

Most of us know that season of life where we’ve moved away, built our own routines, and then find ourselves circling back home for a bit. Maybe for an afternoon. Maybe for a weekend. Maybe for longer than we planned. There’s this unspoken pressure that by adulthood we should have everything figured out. But being home for Christmas reminded me of something I think we all eventually learn: even our parents are still figuring it out.

They’re doing the best they know how, navigating their own questions and hopes and disappointments. And honestly, it’s a little scary to realize we’re all just humans trying to make sense of life at the same time, wandering forward and hoping the next corner reveals something meaningful. Most of us never fully figure it out. Maybe that’s not the point.

It was a brisk 36 degrees in the frozen tundra of Wisconsin, cold enough to sting your lungs a little. The trees weren’t fully covered in snow yet, but the ground held onto the last two inches from earlier in the week. The sun had melted the top layer during the day, only for it to freeze again overnight, turning the trail into a slick, makeshift skating rink.

Watson, my parents’ chocolate lab built entirely of muscle and enthusiasm, didn’t mind. He bounded ahead with that pure, uncomplicated joy dogs seem to be born with. A sniff here, a sniff there, tail wagging like he was discovering the world for the first time. My mom and I talked for a while, but eventually we fell into a comfortable silence, the kind that only exists with people who know you deeply. We just walked, taking in the quiet beauty around us.

The gravel path, covered in fallen leaves and patches of ice, reminded me of my own winter wanderings at the state parks over the last few years. I used to hike in the cold all the time, partly for exercise and partly for clarity. The cold never stopped me. If anything, it made me feel powerful, like I was choosing to step into something most people avoided. Fleece-lined hiking pants, a pom-pom hat, my navy backpack stuffed with snacks — that was all I needed. And yes, I know Wisconsin cold isn’t the coldest in the world, but listen… it’s cold enough for me.

As we continued down the trail, the contrast between my life and my parents’ was obvious. Not in a bad way, just in a “wow, we really live differently” kind of way. Their life is grounded. Predictable in the comforting sense. Work hard, retire eventually, enjoy the simple things: sourdough bread, old TV shows, a quiet evening at home.

Me? I try to relax, I really do. But the truth is, I’m wired for movement. For adventure. For being needed. For doing. Coffee, food, tasks, projects — I’m always in motion. An afternoon at home rarely stays an afternoon at home. I’ll sit for a minute, feel the stillness, and then think, well, nothing on the agenda, so let’s go do something.

But walking that trail, with the cold air biting and Watson bounding ahead and my mom beside me, I felt something I don’t always let myself feel: the steadiness of being held by a moment instead of rushing past it. The reminder that life doesn’t have to be fully figured out to be meaningful.

And maybe that’s the beauty of coming home. It shows you who you were, who you are, and who you’re becoming — all in the same breath.

Maybe home isn’t the place where everything makes sense, but the place that reminds you it’s okay if it doesn’t. A place that slows you down just long enough to notice the beauty you usually move too quickly to see. A place that lets you breathe, recalibrate, and remember that becoming is a lifelong process, not a destination.

And maybe that’s the balance I’m learning now. The movement that drives me and the stillness that grounds me. The life I’m building and the life that built me. The understanding that even if none of us have it all figured out, we’re still finding our way, one quiet, ordinary moment at a time.