There is something about the first time.

The first time something happens that you weren’t prepared for. Your heart races. Your thoughts scatter. You’re trying to figure out what to do while your mind runs through every possibility.

This weekend, I had one of those firsts.

For the first time, I couldn’t find Mom.

I had dropped Finlay off at the groomer. When I got home, I asked, “Hey, where’s Mom?”

“She must have gone for a walk.”

Okay. She does that. That was normal.

But after about fifteen minutes, I had that feeling. You know the one? Something feels unsettled inside you, even before you can explain why.

I took Mom’s bike and rode around our usual loop.

No Mom.

Maybe she was in the backyard. I checked.

No Mom.

Her room? No.

Now the feeling was getting louder.

We got in the car and started looking. And let me tell you, from the passenger seat, nothing felt right. Tony wasn’t driving fast enough. We weren’t turning where I thought we should turn. How could we be looking and still not see her?

The worry. The frustration. The cuticle biting.

All of it.

Looking back, I can see how scared I was. In the moment, I was trying to find somewhere to put that fear while we searched.

Then I caught myself.

Okay. Breathe. Pray.

“God, please guide me. Help me hear You. Help us find Mom.”

I reached out to friends and asked them to pray, too.

Our neighborhood has plenty of places to walk, but it also has twists and turns. We widened our search.

And then I saw the mailman.

Oh, wait. Ask him.

Would I have thought to do that before I started praying? I’m not sure. My mind had been moving so fast. But in that moment, I noticed someone who might be able to help.

“Have you seen an older woman walking in a blue jacket?”

He had. Around 10:30.

Then this young man offered to take my number so he could call if he saw her again.

An act of kindness.

He took a moment to listen and offered to keep looking as he went about his day.

Sometimes, when you’re scared, something that simple gives you a little hope. Someone else knows. Someone else is paying attention.

Eventually, we came home.

And there she was.

Standing in the kitchen.

I wrapped my arms around her.

“Mom, you’re here! Where were you?”

She explained it so matter-of-factly. She had gone up the little hill and kept walking. She had gotten turned around near the escarpment and eventually come out toward the main road.

Near the gas station.

The gas station?

Inside, I had a thousand reactions. But standing in front of me was my mother, who had wanted to enjoy a beautiful day.

I paid attention to my tone.

“Wow, you really wanted to go on quite an adventure today.”

“Well,” she said, “it was so nice out.”

Then I learned how she had gotten home.

A woman had seen her walking near the gas station, stopped, and asked whether she needed a ride. That woman brought my mother home.

A second act of kindness.

A stranger who noticed her. Who asked a simple question. Who took the time to help.

And thank God, Mom knew her address.

She knew her house number. She knew where she lived. She could tell this woman how to bring her home.

In the middle of everything that frightened me, there was also this gratitude: Mom still knows so many things. Those familiar details mattered so much that day.

I keep thinking about those two people.

The mailman who offered to call.

The woman who brought Mom home.

And that small moment after I prayed when I looked up and thought, Ask him.

Sometimes the next step is that simple. Notice. Ask. Let someone help.

Now, several days later, I’m getting tearful telling the story.

During the search, my attention was on finding her. Now I have room to notice how frightening it was—and how grateful I am.

The moment was over, but I still had feelings to catch up with.

I thought we had a safeguard. I could track her phone.

Except she hadn’t taken her phone.

That realization brings practical questions about what needs to change. It also brings another question:

How do I care for myself as I face something I haven’t faced before?

Because caregiving has a way of introducing new firsts before you feel ready for them.

A first moment of confusion. A first change in what someone can safely do alone. A first experience that makes you realize the plan needs to change.

And sometimes, underneath the relief, there is grief.

Something familiar has shifted.

You can be grateful that everything turned out okay and still feel shaken by what happened.

Coming back to yourself

In my coaching work, I invite people to notice what is happening within them, especially when everything around them feels urgent.

Once immediate safety needs have been addressed, we can make room for questions like these:

What am I noticing in my body?
Am I holding my breath? Clenching my jaw? Could I sit down, feel my feet on the floor, and take a comfortable breath?

What am I feeling?
Scared? Relieved? Angry? Sad? Am I allowing those feelings, or telling myself I should already be over it because everything turned out okay?

What do I know, and what am I imagining?
Mom was home safely. My mind could still race ahead to every possible next time. I needed to acknowledge that concern and bring my attention back to what I could address today.

What would support look like right now?
Prayer. A conversation with someone who will listen. Help making a plan. A quiet moment where nobody needs me to have the answer.

What is one useful next step?
I don’t have to solve every future possibility tonight. I can choose one action, involve the people who need to help, and build from there.

Preparing matters. So does allowing ourselves to feel what happened.

I can review our safeguards without turning every gap into evidence that I failed. I can ask for help before I reach exhaustion. I can pray for guidance and let someone else share the responsibility.

For your own reflection

Maybe your first looks different from mine. But if something has happened recently that left you shaken, ask yourself:

• What am I still carrying from that moment?
• What have I been telling myself I “should” have known?
• Where did kindness or support show up?
• What needs to change, and who can help me change it?
• What do I need before I move into the next demand of my day?

I don’t know every first that lies ahead for Mom and me.

This one taught me that our plan needs to change. It reminded me to notice the people around me, to ask for help, and to leave room for my own feelings afterward.

I’m thankful for a young mailman who cared.

For a woman who stopped.

For the address Mom remembered.

For answered prayer.

And now that Mom is home safely, I’m giving myself permission to cry.