The Missing Egg
This actually happened.
There we were, my son and I, ready to bake a chocolate cake.
But there was one egg too little.
I explained.
He resisted.
He stepped into his loop: “You need to get the egg. I’m not doing it.”
And I felt it—he felt pushed, backed into a corner.
And I tried to explain why we needed the egg.
How his reaction was a loop.
But the more I explained,
the more we lost connection.
Fifteen minutes passed.
And I walked away, toward the computer,
halfheartedly returning to “something useful.”
Yet something in me knew:
this wasn’t about the egg.
It was about the missing piece in me.
I was creating from the surface.
I had left the hum.
My body had slipped out of resonance.
And life showed me—through the egg—that a core element of true creation
wasn’t present.
The egg was never about the egg.
It was about embodiment.
Stance.
Being here.
And so I paused.
And I breathed.
And I began to notice how often
I’ve explained.
How often I’ve tried to fix.
How often I’ve believed that if I could just get the ending right,
then I’d be safe.
Then I’d be seen.
Then I’d be good enough.
It wasn’t about parenting.
Or even about cake.
It was about how the seven-year-old in me
had quietly taken the wheel.
She wanted to do it right.
She wanted to bake the cake “perfectly.”
She wanted to be understood.
So when the post was written,
I read it again and thought: “No, no, this isn’t good enough. I need to rewrite the ending. People won’t understand.”
But then something shifted.
I realized it didn’t matter
how the story ended.
It mattered how I was being.
And in seeing her—the seven-year-old trying to make the world okay—
I could soften.
I could stop needing the ending to redeem the post.
Or myself.
Because I am not separate from the post.
The post is the process.
It’s how I’m remembering myself.
And the cake?
It got baked.
Of course it did.
Because I returned.
Because the ingredient that was missing
was me,
present.