How I Learned To 'Be the Best Where You Are'

I listened to the heart monitor beeping regularly, the blood pressure cuff whirring every few minutes, and stared through the darkness at my son sleeping peacefully, still recovering from almost ten hours under anesthesia. I had been awake almost 24 hours by then, but refused to sleep despite the recovery nurse’s repeated requests for me to “get some rest.” She would watch the monitors, she said. She promised me she’d check my son’s oxygen mask and make sure the leg cuffs were working so no blood clots would develop. It was 4 am. Most of the city slept. I could not sleep; I kept vigilant watch over my baby. The nurse sighed and walked away, her padded white shoes making no noise on the hospital floor.

During that long night, I thought about so many other moms that had kept watch over their children through the darkness. Newborns with sleep apnea, toddlers who had not yet started school but who fought for their lives through chemo and surgeries, teenagers who just received their license to drive. That’s what we moms do, we keep watch. We stay awake, we pray, we plead with the universe to keep our babies safe, alive.

The recovery nurse returned to take my son’s vitals again. She brought me some tea and a blanket, and asked me what I did for a living. She was trying to comfort me, in her own way. I looked at her blankly. I was sleep deprived and emotional. I wasn’t sure if my son would walk properly again, his spine finally corrected but his left foot now paralyzed. I could not think straight. Suddenly, in a flash through my mind, ran my entire résumé: college, internships, law school, different legal jobs, my small skincare business. It all didn’t matter at that moment. None of it. “I’m a mom,” I whispered hoarsely, without looking up. “That’s what I do.”

There have been countless times since my children were born that I questioned my decision to “off-ramp” from my career as a full-time attorney. I took family-friendly positions, eventually becoming an independent legal consultant and a small-business owner. I was always torn, from the day my son was born. Right or wrong, it’s how I felt. I would be feeding my son his pureed squash, wondering whether my time and talents would be better spent in the courtroom. I’d be watching Elmo with my daughter, worried about my income potential sliding backwards. I wasn’t sure who I was anymore, never feeling like I fit in anywhere.

Instead of being the best where I was — instead of being present with my children when I was not at work — I only thought about what was next. How could I be more fulfilled? Could I on-ramp again? Would the other moms accept me if I went back to work full-time? Would my legal colleagues dismiss me if I didn’t?

During that long first night in the hospital, though, it occurred to me that this is where I was needed, and I had to be the best where I was. I would not always be in this place, scared and sometimes feeling unfulfilled, but I was here now. And if I wanted something more, something better — whatever that might be — I had to be the best at where I was right at this moment. If I wasn’t, then how would I know I was ready for more. . . and how would I even be prepared?

One of the monitor’s alarms went off, and I jumped, my heart pounding. My son stirred and the nurse fixed the blood pressure cuff, silencing the piercing noise. With heavy eyes, my son asked me the same question he asked the first time he woke up in recovery, “Did they fix me?”

I held back tears and wiped his brow, staring at his yellow, puffy lips and his eyes still horribly swollen from lying prone for ten hours. “You are perfect,” I whispered to him. I knew I would have to tell him about the partial paralysis in his foot eventually, and the long road ahead, but he needed to sleep peacefully now.

He whispered to me as he drifted back to sleep, “Mommy I’m so glad you’re here.”

I was where I needed to be. Not just that night, but for almost 12 years prior. Yes, I missed some school events and there were trip forms I sometimes forgot to sign. Even working part-time requires juggling.

But these past few months I worked less than I have in my entire life as I cared for my son. I declined projects and took a step back from my small business. There were days I was angry, bitter, ungrateful and envious. Not my best moments. I felt stuck and insignificant because I was not doing what I was educated to do, what society told me was “important” and required to be “successful.”

But that night in the recovery room, everything changed. Fear can be incredibly motivating, and ironically, the dark night provides some clarity. I had to be the best at where I was right at that moment. What came next didn’t matter. In fact, what came next would be predicated on how well I did at where I was right then. I became present in that moment, releasing myself from the constraints of my own insecurities and others’ judgments, and gave myself permission to do the best I could do right now, ignoring what’s next.

I met other moms during this journey with my son who have children with permanent disabilities. I know other moms who have battled childhood cancer with their babies, and still others that are autism warriors. All of us, including those just trying to get their kids to eat more veggies, struggle to be the best version of ourselves in these challenging moments. It’s hard.

To cope, I have always looked to what’s next, thinking that the next age or stage would be easier or more fun or more fulfilling. And sometimes that true. But mostly, it’s distracting. Because it allows me to be ungrateful for where I am right now and it does not give me the ability to see the lessons I need to learn to be ready for what’s next.

The Monday after my son came home from the hospital, I didn’t call any clients and tell them I was ready to take on legal work again. I still had my small business, thankfully. But more importantly, after a second surgery and hospital stay, my son was walking again, albeit with significant help and very slowly. I got my little one off to school, made my son breakfast, and waited for the physical therapist to arrive. I had to be the best where I was, and right then it meant constant care and supervision of my 11 year old, from helping him to shower to teaching him how to get dressed again.

I chose to be the best I could be in that moment, and took respite in the fact that my tenacity, faith, and dedication would serve as guideposts to what’s next. Two months after that long night in the recovery room, I still whisper to myself “be the best where you are.” I don’t know what comes next. Really, none of us do. What I do know is that we can ready ourselves by doing the best we can where we are, right now. And that’s enough.