The little things in life are actually big in a way, they nurture us and are essential to notice in order to find our grounding, feel grateful, and find what we need.

In 2016, my 3-person family unit moved into a new house, a mid-century home that had a few 1980s updates. The day after we moved in, it rained, and we discovered a leak in what we call the solarium, a bad leak in one of the corners, which left water dripping and pooled on the floor. 

In November 2016, the results of the presidential election came in, and my husband cried at the thought of raising a daughter in a time of Trump being president. I felt like despite how disturbing Trump’s words about women are and were, this is the world we live in. No surprise to me as far as sexism goes, which is depressing. Even more depressing, to have someone in office who doesn’t use care in how he talks of others, who doesn’t seem to understand his impact and how his words can destroy. 

That fall, our daughter turned 7. She just moved out of the only home she remembered, the home she had lived in since she was less than a year old. She began to respond to us with anger, she glared all the time, and was angry upon waking each morning. We thought of seeking counseling for her.

We tried to take care of the leak in our solarium, but it became clear that it wasn’t going to be a quick fix with a simple patch.

That first winter, I remember sitting on the couch a lot, in the dark of fall and winter, mourning our previous home, unhappy with what didn’t work well in the new place, feeling uneasy walking on neighborhood streets with no sidewalks, uncertain if we had made a big mistake.

House struggles, child struggles, political struggles.

The next August, 2017, almost a year after we moved, our beloved dog was diagnosed with bone cancer in her leg. That September, our daughter’s anxiety hit the roof and “waiting to see” before finding a counselor was no longer an option. Vet specialist visits started, counseling visits started, hope and fear mingled, and I questioned what I could really do about the broader world.

I care about it all. I care about equity, diversity, inclusion. I care about the mental health of individuals. I care about people having homes, and being able to buy food. I care about #metoo and protecting women’s freedom from oppression and sexism. I care about leading a fair, non-biased hiring process as an HR professional. I care about the National Parks, and protecting various species, and climate change. I care about it all. I worry about it. I try to make a difference, but I know I’m not doing enough, and my daughter needs me, and my dogs, and my husband, and the people at work who expect me to show up and be responsible and get my work done.

So, what can I do?! It all feels impossible and big and overwhelming and sad and scary. And what can I really do? Do I read all the news and get more distressed? How can I do that, take it in, and do the right thing, and fight, and make change, and make people happier and more satisfied and more OK?

I can’t. I can’t give enough to an organization serving the homeless to even get one person off the street. I can’t give to the WWF and Sierra Club and Nature Conservancy and Planned Parenthood, and my child’s school, and the DNC, and my favorite literary journal, and the Children’s Theatre, and the Science Center. I can’t do it all.

So, what can I do?

This is what I figured out for myself: I can care for those in front of me. I can be there, be present, listen, try to understand the needs of those I love and those I come in contact with. I can work to communicate clearly, to show respect, to speak with consideration, to hear sentiment, need.

I can also give myself some time to appreciate nature, which took my anxiety and panic away in college, that continues to nurture me in stressful times. I can take the dog bed outside so my dying pup can lay comfortably in the sun. I can learn not to speak when my daughter shares. I can listen, acknowledge, but not necessarily offer my adult perspective, which only makes her upset. I can listen for birds, I can pull weeds in the overgrown garden and, if I’m lucky, catch a glimpse of a mountain beaver.

I can give a dollar or a banana to someone begging. I can notice the lone red flower in a bed of weeds. I can seek care from those who know more than me and can bring perspective to my uncertainty. I can notice the little things that are unusual, visually awesome, somehow funny. I can recognize when it’s all too much, and I can turn to the little things in life to guide me step by step through each day.