Tiny sage, big mirror: Lessons from my oldest
The rockstar.
Some days, I look at my child and feel like I’m raising a miniature sage wrapped in the early edges of a future Luke Skywalker. He’s part acorn, part ancient tree—earnest, intense, full of light and shadows. And lately, he’s been leaning into the light. (And yes, he really loves Star Wars.)
This morning on our walk, we passed the bridge over the highway—wind whirring, trucks below. He looked up at me and said, “I think I’m dizzy. Or queasy.” A few steps later, he added, “I used to be afraid of things. But I try them anyway. I feel better now that we’re over the bridge.”
Good on you, kid. You’re going places.
A few blocks down, we passed a lawn crew spraying the grass. Without looking up, he said, “I’ll never use chemicals to get rid of flowers in my yard. The pollinators need them.” And then, as we neared the fire station: “When I grow up, I’ll build my own fire station so the firefighters don’t have to do everything by themselves.”
Kid was on a roll today.
(I say this as LEGO dinos climb my arms while I type. Like I said—part acorn, part tree. Both parts amazing.)
Another morning this past weekend: I live with a form of dysautonomia. Sometimes I crash. My blood pressure drops fast—like my body pulled a lever I didn’t touch. He’s seen it. He knows the difference between my “normal” face and my “dizzy” one. Once, when I warned him I might fall, he gently rolled out of the way, then sat beside me. No panic. Just, “Do you need a hug?”
Later that same day, after a too-loud car ride full of boundary-testing sibling noise, he walked in the door, slipped off his shoes, and said, “I’m going to my room to read. I need to de-stress.”
He’s not yet five. And he already knows the shape of his own nervous system.
This is the same child who eats seaweed salad like candy but despises quinoa. Who dives into the deepest parts of the local wave pool but unravels when someone (usually his sister) makes a face at him. He’s learning to take breaks, to name his feelings, to listen even when he’s angry. He reminds me—daily—that spiders are our friends and should never be hurt “if they’re in their house.”
I don’t share this to brag. There are hard days. Big emotions. Sudden tears. Spilled bowls. Tired nights. But I share it because these small, quiet, astonishing moments mirror back the life I’m trying to build—not just for him, but for all of us.
He has become a kind of compass for me.
When I wonder if the slowness is worth it—walking instead of rushing, building little instead of scaling fast, choosing community care over competition—he’ll drop something like:
“When bad things end, good things can happen, Momma.” Or: “When you get a job again, we’ll get peanut butter shakes and watch Totoro. It’s a plan.”
Those words rooted me during my layoff earlier this year.
They remind me that even the smallest gestures matter. That kindness toward a bee, a book, a tired mom, or a spider in a dusty corner is a thread in something larger. That every group run I bring him on, every trash-pick-up walk, every slow conversation about why we don’t stomp on ants is weaving a more mindful future.
Children watch what we model. Not the big speeches. Not the mission statements. Not the hours we pour into company tools or planning decks. But the way we pause. The way we fall—and get back up. The way we say sorry. The way we make space—for each other and for the world.
He is watching. He is reflecting.
He (and his sister) are the reason.
A little wild, wise reason I carry with me as I dream of land, of fire circles and mossy trails and shared futures.
Wyrdstead was always meant to be a space for others—but he reminds me that it’s also a legacy.
One small heart at a time.
