Today, I took my two-year-old son for a walk. Nothing extraordinary -- just the wagon, our favorite dirt road, and a little boy who was bound to be in and out of that wagon the entire time. I knew what I was signing up for: sticks, rocks, and every possible "treasure" along the way.
But because I’ve been trying to be more mindful of my own fitness, I decided to track our walk on my Nike running app. What I didn’t anticipate was that the app doesn’t recognize “toddler pace.” Every few steps I’d hear the app chirp: “pausing workout.” Translation: you’re moving too slow to count this as exercise.
Cue frustration.
Suddenly, instead of focusing on the joy of being outside with my son, I was watching the little progress bar on my screen, irritated that it wasn’t ticking forward. My mind wanted to speed things up, get to the “real” walk, and log that distance.
But then—I stopped and actually looked at him.
His little finger pointed at a stone dog statue on a neighbor’s porch with wide-eyed amazement, as if he’d just discovered a new species. He crouched to marvel at wildflowers growing in someone else’s yard, giggling at a real dog wagging its tail across the street. He saw magic in places I wouldn’t have even turned my head.
In that moment, I realized something important: the pace I thought was frustrating was actually the lesson.
I only get one chance to raise this kid. I don’t want to be the mom who’s always rushing from A to B, unintentionally teaching him that curiosity is inconvenient. I want him to feel encouraged to explore, to linger, to discover—even if that means the app never registers our “workout.”
Today was a reality check for me: to slow down, to appreciate life in all its tiny, overlooked details, and to remember that my son’s wonder is the best pace setter I could ask for.
Sometimes slowing down real quick is the only way to really see.