This is Still a Blessing
This Is Still a Blessing
Life.
As I grow older — as a parent, as a man — I find myself reflecting more.
Feeling more.
Loving harder.
And with that love comes something else: fear.
That guttural, overwhelming fear of how fragile it all is.
Sometimes I sit in silence, and I catastrophise.
I imagine the unthinkable.
The terrifying truth that life is not promised, not controlled, not guaranteed.
It is delicate.
Temporary.
And so very out of our hands.
Today I read an article from a childhood cancer charity — and it shattered me.
In that moment, I felt it all: fear, grief, guilt.
Guilt that I sometimes get angry over the tantrums, the disobedience, the chaos of my boys.
Guilt that I forget what a gift those everyday struggles really are.
Because somewhere out there, a parent would give anything to hear their child shout again.
To feel their small arms wrap around them.
To pick up the same toy for the tenth time.
To argue over bedtime.
To still be needed.
Some would pull the moon from the sky with their bare hands just to live another day in the chaos I too often take for granted.
I’m blessed.
Even when the moments are hard.
Even when the evenings are long.
Even when my patience wears thin.
This is still a blessing.
We live life as if it stretches forever.
We make plans years in advance.
We assume we’ll all grow old together.
But the truth?
We’re always a heartbeat away from change.
A breath away from grief.
And maybe, just maybe, we should let that reality shake us from time to time.
Not to live in fear — but to live in awareness.
In presence.
In gratitude.
Because right now — this ordinary, imperfect, messy moment — it matters more than we know.
So when the going gets tough, I’ll try to remind myself:
This. Is. Still. A. Blessing.
We are blessed — to be reading this, to be writing this, to be breathing right now.
That alone makes us richer than some who no longer get the chance.
Don’t wait for tragedy to notice the beauty.
Don’t wait for loss to learn how to love.
Right now is the miracle.
So hold it close.