In my 20s, while living in New York City, I took a long subway ride downtown to sit in a quiet room full of strangers at a Tibetan Buddhist meditation center in Chelsea every week. I was looking for a way to feel more at peace inside my own head, which, at the time, was not the best neighborhood.
In my early 30s, I became a mom just as the pandemic swept the world. My daughter Simone was born in April 2020 when we were still spraying down groceries, and my doctor gently suggested that if I could leave NYC to have the baby, I should.
In those blurry newborn days — equal parts joy, fear, and bone-deep exhaustion — I did what so many of us did: I reached for my phone. Doomscrolling wasn’t just a catchy new term; it was a way of life. My attention collapsed into the small, charged space between my daughter’s soft head and the glowing screen in my hand.
Before kids, presence felt simple
Six years later, everything looks different. I have a son, Julius. We’ve moved twice — first to New Jersey, then to Chicago. I have apps that lock me out of social media after a certain point, an accountability group where we talk (a lot) about presence, and a new, still imperfect relationship with my phone.
And yet.
As my kids get older, they need less from me physically, but more of my attention. “Mommy, mommy, mommy.” “Mommy, watch this.” On the monkey bars, on the living room rug, mid—imaginary play. I’m expected to be an audience, a scene partner, sometimes a costar. I have lines now, too — delivered on cue, with very specific hand gestures, in Simone’s latest play.
And this is where it gets complicated. Because sometimes “Mommy, watch this” comes right as the chicken thighs need flipping, the pasta water is about to boil over, and there’s an urgent email blinking at the top of my screen. Sometimes being present feels less like a mindful choice and more like a logistical impossibility.
I’m juggling dinner, deadlines, and the monkey bars
I want to look up — really look up — and meet their eyes. I don’t want them scanning my face and finding it half-elsewhere, my attention split between them and whatever is glowing in my hand. I don’t want their childhood to be punctuated by the small, constant deferral of “one second.” And yet, one second is sometimes what I have.
I think about that version of me in my 20s, sitting cross-legged in that quiet room in Chelsea, trying to notice her breath, gently bringing her attention back when it wandered. She believed, earnestly, that presence was something you could practice your way into, something clean and contained, something you could get better at if you just tried hard enough.
She had no idea. Because the truth is, my life is not only motherhood. It’s work and deadlines and ambition and creative energy and friendships and dog walks and the thousand small, invisible tasks that keep a household running. My kids matter the most — but what does that actually mean in practice? How does that translate into time, into attention, into the shape of a day?
I’m rethinking what presence means to me
Lately, I’ve felt a quiet but persistent pressure — especially from the parent-centric corners of social media — to be not just present, but deeply, constantly, almost performatively present. On the floor. Fully engaged. Phone away. Eyes locked. Every moment meaningful.
It sounds beautiful. It also feels, at times, like too much.
Because what is actually required here? How much of the play needs me as a scene partner, and how much just needs me nearby, flipping the chicken, listening with one ear, trusting that imagination doesn’t disappear the second I step half a pace away?
I’m starting to wonder if presence isn’t about total immersion, all the time, but something more sustainable. A few minutes of real, undivided attention. An elaborate, swervy bedtime story that stretches longer than it needs to. Eye contact that lands and holds (sometimes, when it counts).
And also: pauses. Breaks. Chicken thighs that need to be flipped. The show will go on.
