The Breath Between

For Every Parent Who’s Slept on a Vinyl Couch or Chair

They said life would be a journey—

neatly paved, gently winding,

a timeline of firsts and milestones.

But some of us veer off that map,

not by choice,

but by necessity.

Our lives aren’t slower—

they’re predictably unpredictable.

Structured by other people’s clocks,

in buildings where time stops and stretches,

where the air is cold,

and so is the vinyl couch that becomes my bed.

I live in a place of beeps and buzzes,

alarms that pierce the night

and chart notes that determine the shape of our days.

Bright lights click on at 3 a.m.

so blood can be drawn,

so numbers can be ready

for the early morning roundtable.

Those rounds—

they come whether you’re ready or not.

Most people don’t realize

you don’t need an invitation to sit in.

But maybe there should be one.

A seat should be reserved—

always—for the guardian.

The one who knows the story behind the stats,

who translates silence,

and remembers what every smile costs.

The road we travel isn’t flat.

It’s a roller coaster—

not the kind you buy a ticket for,

but the kind you hang onto with both hands.

There are climbs so steep

your heart races with the weight of what-ifs,

drops that steal your breath,

and moments—rare, golden—

where we coast in laughter,

or celebrate a single step,

or finally, finally, go home.

This life is not what I imagined—

but it is deeply, fiercely real.

It teaches you how to sit inside sorrow

and still search for wonder.

It trains your eyes to catch joy

in the smallest movement,

to hold onto hope

like it’s oxygen.

And when I look back,

I won’t count what was missed—

I’ll remember what was made:

connection in the chaos,

strength in the waiting,

love that refused to surrender.

Because the moments that take your breath away

aren’t always grand.

Sometimes they’re quiet.

And sometimes they’re hard.

But they are ours—

and that’s what makes them holy.