Not mine to fix

T’s parakeet escaped yesterday. He’s 19, but the heartbreak was raw and immediate. Mine too.

I stood there with that familiar ache—wanting to fix it, knowing I couldn’t. That stage of parenting where the scraped knees are gone, and the wounds are quieter but deeper. Where your kids face things you can’t shield them from, and all you can offer is presence.

T didn’t ask me to fix it. He thought, he planned, he hoped. He took the bird’s mate, listened for the chirp, and—against the odds—brought his little friend home.

It wasn’t my hands that fixed it.
It was his heart.

Maybe that’s where I am now.
Not the fixer. Just the witness to resilience.

And honestly? What a beautiful thing to behold.