fear of joy happening just out of reach

This little scene from today morning keeps replaying in my head.

A mother trying to get her toddler to school, and this kid, this tiny philosopher, comes up with the most devastating argument I’ve heard in a while: “If I go school, Aranya (her friend) will celebrate without me.”

Simple as that. Raw as that. And something in me recognized that ancient fear — that terror of moments unfolding without us, of joy happening just out of reach.

(god, when was the last time I was that honest about what scares me?)

The kid didn’t want to go to school because her friend might celebrate the festival without her. Not her festival, not her tradition, but somehow, completely hers in that way children claim joy without questioning its origins.

I love how the mother handled it — that perfect blend of understanding and problem-solving that good parents somehow master. “She won’t go without you, I promise. And even if she does — hey, dad will take you.”

Just like that. Problem solved, fear addressed, world put right again.

Because isn’t that what we all need to hear sometimes? That the world won’t move on without us. That we won’t miss the moment. That there’s always a way to make it work?

*****

How many times have we all been that little girl?

We spend decades in therapy, in meditation retreats, in self-help seminars, trying to understand what this child laid bare in a single sentence: we just want someone to share the good stuff with. Someone to turn to when the lights come on. When the moment turns golden.

This child — she just wanted to be where the joy was. And her mother, instead of explaining why she couldn’t, found a way she could. Maybe that’s the real adult understanding — not that we have to choose between obligations and celebrations, but that with a little creativity and compassion, we can find ways to honour both.

Funny how it takes a child’s protest and a mother’s promise to remind us that sometimes, the best answer isn’t “no” or “yes,” but “let’s figure out how.”

You know what got me? How simple and complicated it all was at the same time.

Here’s this kid who doesn’t see traditions as ‘yours’ or ‘mine’ — she just sees joy and wants to be where it is. No overthinking about cultural boundaries or appropriateness or any of that grown-up noise we tend to create.

Just pure, unfiltered “I want to be there when the good stuff happens.”

Sometimes I think we spend so much time teaching kids how to be grown-ups that we forget to let them teach us how to stay human. About how it’s okay to say “I don’t want to miss this” and “I want to be there” and “Can we find a way?”

Who here hasn’t been haunted by the ghost of loneliness?

In our steel-and-glass offices, in our carefully curated social lives, in our meticulously planned futures — this primal need to have someone there. Someone to turn to when the light hits just right. Someone to catch your eye when the joke lands. Someone to witness your life unfolding, making it real by simply being there.

We dress it up, of course. Call it networking. Partnership. Collaboration. Community. But strip away the corporate jargon, the self-help vocabulary, the therapy-speak, and what’s left? That same child’s fear: Please don’t let the good things happen without me. Please don’t go where I can’t follow.

The truth is brutal in its simplicity: we’re not afraid of missing moments. We’re afraid of missing moments ALONE.

Watch how we move through life. Every achievement feels half-formed until shared. Every setback doubles its weight in solitude. We’re like those quantum particles they talk about — only really existing when observed, measured, witnessed.

And the second-half of this class act — The mother’s solution to her daughter’s crisis: you won’t miss it, we’ll make sure you’re there. But who makes us these promises as adults? Who ensures we won’t miss the metaphorical festivals of life?

The answers get more complicated, but the need remains elementary.

All elaborate adults ways of saying what that child said so plainly: I want someone there when things matter.

Here’s what I think we’re really saying in all our relationships:

Promise you’ll wait. Promise you’ll witness. Promise you’ll make the moment real by sharing it. Promise that when the lights come on and the music starts, you’ll turn to find me already there, ready to share the wonder.

The irony is how we complicate this simple need. We build empires, create content, achieve milestones — all elaborate mechanisms to ensure we’re not celebrating alone. To guarantee someone will be there when the moment comes.

That child this morning — she knew something we spend decades in therapy discovering: that joy shared is joy amplified, and that the fear of missing out has nothing to do with the event itself and everything to do with watching others experience it without us.

Sometimes I wonder if all our adult anxieties, all our sophisticated fears, all our complex neuroses, boil down to that one childlike need: Please be there. Please don’t experience the beautiful things without me. Please wait.

The rest is just window dressing.

The rest is just — all our adult complexities, all our sophisticated fears, all our elaborate social contracts — is just window dressing around this one simple truth: we want someone there when things matter.

That little girl knew it. Her mother honoured it.

And here I am, cracked open by their morning exchange, remembering what I’ve always known but somehow keep forgetting: that maybe the whole point of this messy, beautiful life is finding people who’ll wait to celebrate with you.

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