On the morning of my daughter’s high school graduation last spring, I received difficult news.
Staring at the text message, I took a few deep breaths and weighed my options.
Responding right then would’ve meant halting my morning preparations to craft a reply—one that undoubtedly would pull me away from the joy of the day and into an emotional spiral.
I glanced at the message again, felt the familiar tug of urgency, and made a conscious decision to put away my phone and turn back to the mirror.
As I steadied myself, three familiar words quietly rose within me:
Only Love Today.
When I got into the car with several family members, I briefly considered sharing the news. But I knew saying it out loud would throw me off-center and cast a shadow over our momentous day.
It helped to remember something my mom once told me after I delayed sharing difficult news with my children:
“It’s okay to give yourself time to process hard things before helping anyone else do the same.”
There’s an unspoken pressure to deliver bad news the moment we receive it, as if immediacy is a measure of responsibility. But I’ve come to believe that giving ourselves space to breathe, to think, to feel, is not avoidance; it’s wisdom.
My mom’s advice had helped me immensely in the past, and it felt like what I needed then. I took it a step further by imagining my small, beige clutch as a lock box. I placed the bad news inside—figuratively—and sealed it shut. There was nothing I could do about the situation at that moment, so I let it rest there while I turned my attention to what mattered most: fully witnessing this milestone in my daughter’s life.
Before sealing away the weight of the bad news, I reached for something to anchor me in the moment: an embroidered handkerchief sent by a dear friend.
Tucked inside was a message that read,
“Rachel, you are worthy of pretty handkerchiefs as you plant pauses and behold the beauty of Avery’s graduation.”
It was as if my friend intuitively knew exactly what I would need on this day. What she didn’t know was that my 85-year-old dad had carried a white hanky in his pocket every day of my life. Having this reminder of him felt especially poignant. A month before graduation, he’d made a difficult phone call to Avery—his voice catching as he explained that his health wouldn’t allow him to travel for the ceremony.
For a moment, I saw disappointment flash across my daughter’s face. But just as quickly, she collected herself and assuredly told her beloved grandpa his safety and well-being mattered more than anything else.
I knew then how important it would be to share the experience with my dad later. As I surveyed the rows and rows of chairs that would soon hold a graduate, I thought of how each one carried a story of quiet triumph.
I looked around at the proud, smiling families eagerly awaiting their child’s entrance.
And I said a quiet prayer for the family of the graduate who is no longer with us—their empty chair marked by a graduation gown and a white rose.
Staying present in that moment was the gift I gave myself, so that later, I could give it to my dad. I wanted him to know not just what took place, but how the experience felt.
It wasn’t long before Avery and her fellow graduates entered the convention center donned in their caps and gowns. As the traditional graduation march filled the convocation center, tears began to flow. In that moment, I remembered the deeper promise I was keeping, not just to my child, but also to myself.
Fourteen years earlier, at Avery’s preschool graduation, I’d had a painful awakening. I realized I was missing my own life—living distracted, self-critical, always managing—and with that, missing the chance to truly know my child. That day, as the tiny graduates sang songs about growing up, I cried tears of gratitude. Because of that awakening, I believed there was a good chance I would truly know my daughter.
Later, I wrote in my journal:
“I can’t help but feel excited about who Avery will be when she walks across the high school graduation stage years from now. I can picture it – my curly-haired Noticer of life brightening the whole auditorium with her contagious smile. I’ll lean over to the person sitting next to me and whisper, ‘I know her; I know every good thing about her.’”
To stand there all these years later, watching that same bright soul walk across the stage – and to actually know her – felt like a miracle.
Rarely does life unfold exactly as we imagined. Even when we think the plan is coming together, it can suddenly unravel. That’s when we have to return to what we can control — and our attention is one of those things.
We can stay fixated on how it was “supposed” to be… or we can protect what remains.
We can choose to stay present for what is still ours to celebrate.
Not forever.
Not perfectly.
Just today.
Just this moment.
That is what I managed to do at my daughter’s high school graduation.
Today I see the proof on the handkerchief—decorated with faint traces of makeup and dried tears.
Evidence that I was all there—
sitting with joy and sorrow
the regrets and the grace
filling the gaps, the holes, the empty seats—
with all the love and presence a heart can hold.
My hand in yours,
Rachel
I’ve realized over the years that staying present rarely happens by accident. Most of us need gentle reminders to come back – to the people in front of us, to ourselves, to what matters most.
That realization inspired something very special I’ve been working on throughout the past year: the Only Love Today 2027 page-a-day calendar.
Designed as a daily companion, this color, tear-off calendar offers one compassionate reminder each day to breathe, refocus, soften, and begin again.
Calendars will begin shipping in August, and because print quantities are set early, pre-ordering is the best way to ensure you receive a calendar, especially if you’re hoping to have extras to give as gifts.
You can pre-order on Amazon, Walmart, Books-a-Million, or BulkBookStore. Some international retailers are also carrying it.
Just like with books, pre-orders serve as “votes,” helping this message find its way into more hands, homes, and hearts. So if you are planning to order, it would help tremendously if you do so now rather than later.
As always, I am so grateful for your support and steadfast belief in me.
