I took an hour recently and sat outside, no phone and no agenda. It was just me, a chair, the ocean breeze, and the sweet sound of birds singing their afternoon songs. I started thinking about the people in my life, from my earliest memories.
There was no structure to it. I simply let my mind wander back as far as it could go. My earliest memories are fragmented but still visceral. I remember sitting with my mom, reading stories and singing songs. I can’t remember the songs or, honestly, the stories, but I do remember her: her warmth, even her youth. Almost equally as early, I can hear the silly sounds my dad made when he would playfully chase my older brother and me around the house, catching us hiding under the covers and tickling us until we cried. The things said all escape me now, but the security of each moment remains.
Not long after that, friends start to appear, around the age of three. In one fairly vivid memory, my brother, some boys, and I were playing with a ball in the house. We shattered the ceiling light. I suppose that was the moment I learned not to play with a ball inside. Lessons come early. Even in that memory, what stands out now is not the broken light, but the people, the laughter, and the feeling of being with others.
As the years kept moving, more faces came into view: friends, mentors, and teammates. Some stayed. Some drifted. Some shaped me in ways I understood at the time, and others I only appreciate now, years later.
Sitting there, I felt something I do not always make time for: gratitude. Not for accomplishments or milestones, but for presence, for the simple fact that my life has been filled with people who showed up in it.
That process takes me all the way to today. I woke up this morning with the precious, squishy fingers of my four-year-old daughter, Lakely, resting against my face as she softly snored next to me. I want her memories to be shaped by the same things, the feeling of peace and security that makes remembering what was said unnecessary. I hope the ones I love remember actually being loved by me.
Who do you love? Who have you loved? Who has loved you?
Consider finding a place where you can sit for a while without interruption—somewhere you can hear the world moving just a little. Close your eyes and begin walking back through your life. Let the people come to mind. Don’t rush it; just notice who appears. You may be surprised how many there are. You may also be surprised at how grateful you feel.
When you think about the people who have shaped your life—the ones you love and the ones you have shared it with—it becomes more obvious what matters most. You see more clearly who you want to take care of, who you trust, and what you hope continues, even after you are gone.
Eric Puckett