Yesterday was one of those days that almost didn’t happen. The forecast held threats of rain—and even in the morning, the air was hot, heavy, and thick with humidity. The current political unrest in America made us debate the safety of our plans. It would’ve been easy to cancel, choose another day, another location. But we didn’t.
I couldn't help noticing how perfectly the weather acted as a metaphor for this particular season of my life. Thick clouds overhead, a little dark, a little uncertain, sometimes briefly broken by bits of sunshine. The truth is, we’ve had a very different kind of cloud hovering for a while now. A genetic one. And we've been waiting for test results, examining blood work, scheduling and attending appointments, chasing symptoms no one can quite explain. This week was the first time one of our doctors actually said the word "cancer" out loud.
And while he was encouraging in the moment (no cancer, but certainly things to watch for), if I could condense my youngest daughter's doctors' words over the last few weeks into a simple turn of phrase, it would be this: “You've got a potentially dark genetic storm cloud over your head. But it’s not raining. Yet.” So we keep moving forward, not because we’re pretending everything is okay, but because we’re learning how to live even when it’s not.
My cousin is my best friend, my favorite genius, and only person on the planet I ever feel completely relaxed with. So when she asked if my daughter and I wanted to join her and her wide-eyed, energetic little grandson at the zoo, we jumped at the chance to spend time with people we love, doing something distracting, enjoying the magic of proximity to creatures we could never see otherwise.
Still, these outings aren’t as easy for me as they once were. Life with disabilities that include chronic pain often means even fun comes with a cost. I knew that when the day was done, I'd be paying the price—but I also knew that every second would be worth it. Not just for the awestruck moments spent standing two feet away from a three-thousand-pound rhino or the playful antics of a river otter, but for the time invested in a lifelong friendship, the widening of a little boy's blue eyes, the little smiles I caught my daughter wearing throughout the day. It's about enjoying the presence of people you love, wherever you find them. It's about taking time to walk slower, stay longer. Appreciate deeper.
And I loved every painful step.
I thought I was prepared. I wore my most supportive shoes, took my pain meds, brought my cane. Slept well. Hydrated. And none of it worked.
My knee started aching halfway through the first loop. I ignored it, knowing we would pause often, sometimes to rest, sometimes simply to marvel. We scratched the shell of a massive centenarian tortoise, laughing as he heaved himself up, his leathery neck stretched, his quiet eyes half-closed in bliss. We fed a rainbow of fluttering parakeets, admired the herringbone scales of a king cobra, shared moments of both surprise and amusement as we flirted with a langur. We watched red pandas and black bears and a Malayan tiger at rest, each in pockets of shaded semi-privacy. Each one simultaneously safe—and seen.
We stopped for lunch near the end of the first loop, and afterwards I gave into pain, stubborn pride submitting to the visibility of my cane. My knee was screaming. But it hadn't rained, lunch was delicious, and there was still so much to see. My cousin and her grandson left early, but my daughter and I stayed to wander the trails, sharing moments of joy between bits and pieces of conversation. And maybe for just a little while, we forgot about the doctor visits and the weight of the other slow, uncertain journey we’re walking together.
She has a rare gene mutation—zbtb7a—and while we still don’t know much about what it means in the long term, we know enough to live with caution right now. Enough to feel the weight of it on even the best days. I haven’t written about it much because my daughter deserves her privacy, but as her mother, its presence lingers now in the background of everything. Every plan we make. Every choice I second-guess. Every prayer I pray for heaping measures of time and wisdom. And with that weight keeping me mindful of every moment, when we get the chance to live freely, untethered however briefly from research and wondering, I take it.
We did talk about sore feet though, and at one point, I mentioned how long my knee had been hurting—even before the appearance of my cane. And she looked surprised when I said, “Well, it’s been hurting since before the carousel.” She sat very quietly for a moment, brows furrowed over a bowl of electric blue Cookie Monster Dippin' Dots.
Then she leaned over, rested her head on my shoulder, and whispered, “Thanks, Mom.”
She's sixteen and not always perceptive. She's autistic and sometimes amusingly unaware. But she's also bright and understanding, and she's learning at this early age that it's not about the zoo or the cane or the summer heat. It's about the moments when our choices show the people around us who they are and what they mean to our lives. Moments warmed by companionship that costs something. Moments that help us fill the empty places in each other's spirits.
We walked longer than I probably should have, and I paid for it later with wobbly steps and uncertain stability. I'm still exhausted, and my knee is still hurting. But, despite my physical body, I think my daughter and I both found rest at the zoo.
Emotional rest. Mental rest. For her, a fresh breeze, a change of scenery, the energy of a toddler relative. The peace of a gentle duiker watching us with calm curiosity. For me, a temporary pause from the burnout, uncertainty, and emotional labor of my life in its current season.
My older daughter is home again, and while I love having her back, I'm also discovering that parenting adult children is its own kind of exhausting. There is love, yes, and sometimes even a return to the security of knowing she's tucked away safe at night. But there is also the tension of a new learning curve, the exercise of balancing boundaries, and the not-always-silent tug-of-war between autonomy and responsibility.
Most days, I’m stretched thin. Between caring for one daughter whose future is unclear and coaching the other as she continues to learn what independence really means, I often feel like I’m trying to breathe underwater. But for just a little while on that zoo trail, with an aching knee and a quietly thoughtful teenager, I could breathe again. We didn’t talk about zbtb7a. We didn’t talk about blood work, or household stress, or the fear that creeps in when we let ourselves think too far ahead.
We just lived, right there in that moment. And that, too, is a kind of healing.
*****
Yesterday wasn’t restful in the traditional sense. I didn't lounge in bed or take a nap. There wasn't much silence. And I never did make it to the grocery store. But yesterday brought rest in the ways that matter most: shared laughter, lingering awe, small kindnesses. And the feeling of being seen.
I’ll probably never forget the cobra’s unblinking stare. The ancient tortoise slowly reaching toward affection. The soft, grateful “thanks” from a daughter who’s already had to grow up faster than she should. Or the stillness that came at the end of the day, when we were aching and exhausted, but somehow still more full than we’d been in the morning.
Because sometimes, the most sacred moments are the ones that cost us the most. Because they’re the ones we carry with us, long after the trail ends. Because they're the ones that remind us of the miracle each breath brings. And because they're the moments that help us, in the hardest times, to...
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