I just got back from Belgium. My husband and I went there for a wedding. The real reason was our granddaughter, Lyla. And our son and daughter‑in‑law. The wedding was just a good excuse to be there together.
Then our younger son and his wife surprised us. They showed up. And suddenly we were all in Antwerp, the whole family, which rarely happens. It was completely unplanned. And it ended up being the best part of the trip.
Lyla is fifteen months old. She speaks a little. Her frequently used words are ‘mama’, ‘hi’, and ‘no’. She makes animal sounds, gives high‑fives, claps, and blows kisses too. She’s a genius in my eyes. I held her a lot. Especially during the baraat. I strapped her to my chest and danced. She didn’t clap. She didn’t shout anything clever. She just watched the drummer with these huge eyes and smiled every time I spun.
And all the while, my brain was trying to run away. There was a work call I had postponed. Writing I was behind on. My elderly parents back home, left with a dear friend and two nurses I trusted but still worried about. My body was there, but my mind wasn’t.
Then Lyla pointed at the drummer. Her little finger, straight out. She wasn’t stressed. She wasn’t planning. She was just… this moment. Just the noise, the lights, the bounce of dancing. No agenda. No worry. Just now.
That stopped me. A baby who can just say ‘hi’ was teaching me about presence.
I coach and write a lot about clarity, about confidence. And I’ve found a pattern among the people I work with. They believe if they could just see the next three months clearly, they’d stop feeling overwhelmed. If they just had the perfect plan, they’d relax. But that’s backwards. Clarity isn’t a clear road ahead. It’s the ability to be fully here while the road is foggy.
That baraat wasn’t choreographed. Everyone was just happy to be together, and nobody cared about the small imperfections. And being with both my boys, their wives, and my little Lyla turned a nice trip into a memory I’ll carry forever. The best things rarely come from perfect schedules.
So I came back with this question: What would change if I stopped seeing unplanned moments as problems, and started seeing them as invitations?
For me, that changes everything. I’d stop checking my phone when my family is right in front of me. I’d say yes to the unexpected dance. I’d dress up for no reason. When I put Lyla in a little pink brocade kurta and pants with a little dupatta for the welcome dinner, she didn’t understand fashion. But she saw herself in the mirror and kicked her legs with joy. We adults dress for function. We forget to dress for feeling good. Try wearing something that makes you smile before a hard meeting. It actually helps.
I’m not saying ignore your work. I’m saying your work will still be there. The baraat is happening now. Go dance. Let a fifteen‑month‑old pull your hair and point at a drummer. Joy doesn’t need big words. It doesn’t need a perfect plan. It just needs you to show up, fully, to whatever is in front of you.
