And there I was, headed north on I-89, experiencing a pain worse than childbirth (I do not kid, and I do not say that lightly). The popping in my ear was getting louder and had me thinking — with the very little bit of coherent thought I could muster — IT IS ACTUALLY HAPPENING!

This is the part where I embarrassingly admit that I am a full-grown adult woman who did not realize she had an ear infection. It didn’t even really hurt. It just felt… off? A little muffled. Slight pressure. Kinda like waiting for your ears to pop after getting off an airplane. For three days.

Easy(ish) to ignore.

Until it wasn’t.

Until I was crying in the pharmacy line.

Until a random Wednesday, it escalated so quickly that I decided it was no longer a ‘wait it out’ situation. Two hours later, I was a not-so-proud member of the Ruptured Eardrum Club.

And here’s the part that’s been sitting with me: It didn’t feel dramatic while it was building.

It felt subtle.
Manageable.
Like [muffled] background noise.

Which, honestly, feels a lot like childhood.

You’re in it, and it’s just normal. The noise. The repetition. The snack requests. The wet mittens. The bathtime giggles. The “mama watch this!” and “mama watch this!” and “mama watch this!” again.

Nothing feels catastrophic.
Nothing feels like a rupture.

Until one day it does.

The last time they needed help putting on their snow boots.
The last time they mispronounced that word.
The last time they reached for your hand without thinking or looked back at you before running off with friends or wanted one more book before bed.

It doesn’t always hurt while it’s happening.
It just quietly builds.
And then suddenly, something has shifted, and you can’t quite remember when.

This month has felt like a small nudge from the universe (or my inner ear, apparently) to pay attention to the low-grade, easy-to-ignore things. The subtle pressure. The quiet changes. The almost-missed moments.

Because sometimes the escalation isn’t loud. Sometimes it’s just life moving forward at its regular speed. And if I’m honest, that’s a lot of why I care so much about what I do.

Not because every moment is monumental. But because most of them aren’t.

They’re subtle.
They’re ordinary.
They’re “I’ll remember this forever” without you realizing you will.

Anyway. If you need me this month, I’ll be over here taking my antibiotics, resting my very dramatic ear, and listening a little more carefully to the parts of life that don’t shout for attention (with the one ear that currently works).

Sometimes those are the ones that matter most, you know?

[This note was written while Henry’s noisemaker hummed from his room and two sleepy pups fight for my limited lap space.]

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