If I could be one thing, it would be to be great at waiting. I was that kid that was the last one to get picked up. From school. From dance practice. From friend’s houses. I was always the last one. So I learned how to wait. I learned to be patient because I knew, sooner or later my mom would arrive. Sometimes she didn’t and someone had to call her and let her know her child was waiting. Other times my friend Abby’s parents would have compassion (or pity) and invite me over for dinner, and it was great to arrive at a home where food was freshly made and stability was deeply felt.

There was no wondering about what we would eat for dinner, we could smell the aromatic herbs Abby’s mom was using to make caldo de pollo. There was no wondering if I had forgotten to do laundry because her drawers were embracing her clothes neatly folded and even color-coded. I loved opening them because I could smell the expensive fabric softener Abby smelled like. There was no wondering if we were going to arrive on time to watch Boy Meets World, because we were home on time and a snack was waiting for us by the time we arrived.

I liked going to Abby’s house. It felt like not a lot of waiting had to be done. For once it felt nice to have my mom be late to pick me up because that meant I could take a look at her fully stocked fridge one more time. I could sit at her spacious living room and watch her dad read his evening book one more time. I could look out the window and pretend this house was mine. One more time.

I could see the lights of my mom’s 1992 Volkswagen bug arriving, I could barely hear the honk because it only worked when it wanted to. I often would come down and I could see mom moving things around because she had barely gotten of work. I would squeeze in the passenger seat as I would get handed over a box of supplies she had to deliver first thing the next day.

Riding in that car was an adventure. The incessant rumbling under our feet, the space we had to wait for mom to shift gears and push the gas because she was so tired and the pedals were so rough. Every time it was an adventure. And mom would make it fun somehow. No matter how tired she was, every time she would miss a gear and kill the engine, she would laugh at herself and she would try again.

And she did. Every day was a new opportunity for her to try again. To give us a better life. To show up to school on time. To make frozen meals feel like she had just picked fresh tomato from her garden. To create a home for us that felt warm and cozy. Even if that home was a beat down car that barely ran. She tried every time.

I may not have understood it back then. But I do now. That lesson of waiting my mom gave me has taught me to trust. To trust that it isn’t about having the perfect home or the perfect car. It’s about trusting that I have what it takes to make things happen. Even if I have to wait a little longer. Even if I have to work with what I have. Even if I have to take the scenic ride.

In a world that is always rushing and reminding us to go faster every time, what if we give ourselves permission to trust our own timeline? Our own imperfections. Our inner rumbling so we can slow it down and actually feel the ground beneath our feet. Because what if each step we take, we take it slow and we feel our growth as we watch everyone around us run and miss the beauty of the wait.

~ Pam