I'VE BEEN REFLECTING a lot about love lately—not the grand, rom-com kind with dramatic declarations in the rain, but the quiet, everyday kind that sneaks into the cracks of our lives. You know, the love in the tired, “We survived bedtime” smiles parents share after a long, chaotic day. The love in splitting the last slice of cake, even when you really wanted the whole thing. It’s not the kind of love that gets a standing ovation, but the kind that’s steady and dependable—like the Wi-Fi signal you don’t notice until it’s gone. It’s the glue of the small, ordinary moments that build a life.
But here’s the thing: does the love we give always translate into love they feel?
Growing up, I never doubted my parents loved me. It was baked into the homemade meals, the early mornings they spent driving me to practice, and the endless sacrifices they made to give me opportunities they never had. Love was woven into the fabric of everything they did. And yet, there were times I craved something a little different. I longed for extra attention, a bit more validation, or maybe just five seconds of undivided eye contact when I was sharing a story I thought was important. Looking back, I know they believed they were nailing it. Honestly, they probably were—in their own way. But as a kid, my younger self wasn’t always convinced.
This got me wondering—maybe love isn’t the question we should be asking. After all, love is usually there, even when we don’t see it in the way we hope to. The bigger, trickier question is about balance. Are everyone’s needs—parents, kids, pets, the houseplants—actually being met?
Parenthood, it turns out, is the ultimate juggling act. It’s a nonstop dance between meeting deadlines and indulging in daydreams, between being the superhero your kid believes you are and desperately needing someone to remind you that you’re doing okay. It’s about showing up, over and over again, even when you’re running on empty. And balance? Well, balance doesn’t mean getting everything perfect all at once—spoiler alert: nobody does. It’s not about perfection; it’s about paying attention. Noticing the cracks. Noticing when your kid’s need for reassurance gets drowned out by your need for a nap. Or when your child is looking for a cheerleader, but you’re stuck spiraling in your own self-doubt.
The truth is, finding that balance isn’t easy. It’s messy, uncomfortable, and sometimes overwhelming. But here’s the thing: when we’re brave enough to stop and reflect—even just for a moment—we might learn something. Maybe we’ll start to see the places where we can adjust, the moments where we can show up a little differently. Maybe we’ll even figure out how to do better next time, even if “better” is just a small step forward.
So here’s a question I’m carrying with me this week, and maybe you can too:
“Does the love here feel balanced? Are everyone’s needs—including mine—being seen and heard?”
It’s not an easy question to sit with, but it’s a powerful one. And who knows? It might just lead us to something profound. A little more connection. A little more alignment. A love that isn’t just given, but shared in a way that feels real and meaningful for everyone involved.
Because at the end of the day, love isn’t about grand gestures or perfect moments. It’s about noticing what matters, adjusting where we can, and showing up for each other—even when it’s hard.
With wit, waffles, and a whole lot of wonder,
-Grady Pope
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