Over the past week, I have been moved to tears by my son. Not because he was misbehaving or did something especially sweet—though I have certainly cried in both these instances—but because the pureness of his heart reminded me of who I want to be.
The love, the understanding, the appreciation for others and for his life, his gratitude and kindness, his gentleness and care—they have reminded me of the goodness that exists in the world and inspired me to be a better person.
Before I share more, let me tell you about my son, Max.
Max is ten, turning eleven this July. His life has been intense from the start, beginning with gestational cholestasis, a condition during pregnancy that required an emergency induction.
One minute, I was paying for lunch and about to sit down with my friend to enjoy time together before the whirlwind of a new baby; the next minute, my midwife was calling, urging me to go to the hospital immediately. My friend got my food quickly packaged to go and rushed me to the nearest hospital—which, luckily, she worked at as an attorney and was able to flash her badge around to get me in immediately.
From birth we’ve had a tough go, Max and me. And his little life has been difficult since, with many medical visits and health and therapeutic interventions to help him grow and thrive. Through it all, he has carried joy with him like a sunbeam held gently in his hands. He walks into a room and faces light up. He walks through school and still, at ten, adults reach out to rustle his hair. He remembers details about others, asking how they are, inquiring about their kids, their pets, their jobs.
How was your vacation? Is your mom better? Did you like the movie last weekend? Is your arm better?
And my favorite of all his regular questions: How is your life?
So—this is all to say that my Max is a special one. I know I’m biased . . . but I can also tilt my view to see him more subjectively, and to notice that he is unique in his worldview and the purity with which he loves. A friend once said to my husband and me, “Anyone who doesn’t like Max has something wrong with them.”
Which brings me to this week and the lesson I learned from him, which I hope moves you the way it moved me.
Take joy in the experience, not just the memory.
Last week, Max had one of the most exciting opportunities of his young life: to meet Adassa, the voice actor of Dolores in his favorite movie, Encanto.
Max is obsessed with Encanto. He was Bruno for Halloween, has multiple toys from the movie, owns a Mirabel figurine for his Tonie Box, and constantly asks to listen to the sound track. He loved the Disney+ recording of Encanto live at the Hollywood Bowl, which Adassa is in, and constantly belts out tunes from the movie.
So when Adassa’s PR agent pitched my podcast to discuss Adassa’s new book, my producer, Rita, sent me a note with something like: Max will be so excited! Can I assume it’s a yes?
The day of the interview, Max got off school early, dressed in his Bruno costume, prepared questions, and readied himself to meet one of his heroes. Meeting Adassa stunned him. For several moments, he stared, then tentatively asked his questions. As he warmed up, he got bolder, asking question after question like a pro interviewer. Adassa sang a few lines from “We Don’t Talk About Bruno,” which made Max tear up—and me tear up too. When it was over, I hugged Max tightly, appreciating how special this experience was for him.
Then, I went to download the recording to share with our family—and it was blank. Only Max and I were recorded. Adassa’s part of the video had blanked out after 12 seconds.
I called Max in. “Buddy,” I told him. I’m so sorry. The video didn’t record.”
I was expecting him to be upset, maybe even cry. But he didn’t. He just stood there. “So, I can’t show my class?”
“No. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened.”
When he didn’t say anything, I felt tears welling up and laid my forehead on my desk in frustration. But then I turned to look at Max, who seemed completely fine. In fact, more than fine. He seemed content. After all, he’d just met one of his heroes!
I realized, in that moment, that it wasn’t about the memory for him, or about sharing the memory with others. It was about the experience. And me being upset about the video was raining on his Encanto parade.
I sat up and hugged him. “It’s so special that you got to meet her, isn’t it?” He agreed and left smiling, as if on a cloud.
This is not to say I didn’t try to recover the video. Many, many exchanges with our recording software (whom I won’t name because it feels unhelpful to the purity of this lesson), I gave up seeking out the memory and tried on Max’s perspective: being thankful for the experience.
I learn many lessons from my son, but his presence is one of the most profound. His gratitude for the moment, for my attention, for his dad taking time to play a video game with him, for his sister jumping on the trampoline with him—to him, life is happening now. Not in the past or the future. Now.
May I become more like Max with every passing day. If I do, I will be a better person for it.
P.S. As I write this, Adassa is scheduled for a second interview due to some scheduling and technical issues with the first one—so Max gets to redo the interview. He can’t wait! Be sure to subscribe so you don’t miss the episode, featuring a special bonus at the end, with my guest cohost, Max.
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