Family's anchor

 

Today, I want to talk about family. It’s funny, isn’t it? When they’re around, you treat them like they’ll always be there a comfortable, quiet certainty. Then, when they’re not, you miss them terribly. And when they return, you settle right back into that familiar rhythm.

I’ve been lucky. My family doesn’t have the most money in the world, but they are rich in love. They’ve been my shelter in dire times, and I know that’s a blessing not everyone has, which makes me hold it closer.

But I’ll be honest. For so long, I saw my parents more like permanent furniture in the house of my life always there, ready with wisdom, and, yes, often taken for granted. I knew they were a gift, but I didn’t always feel it.

That changed for me recently, on a perfectly ordinary day. My mom had just gone out to the shop. I was sitting alone, not doing anything special, when a wave of feeling hit me so hard it almost took my breath away. It was pure, overwhelming gratitude for her. Not because she had done anything spectacular, but simply because she exists. Because she is my mother.

We live together; of course we get on each other’s nerves sometimes! But in that quiet moment, all the minor irritations vanished, and all I felt was a fierce, joyful gladness for her presence in my life.

It reminded me of Basiima Ogenze’s beautiful song, "Maama," where he pours out his heart in gratitude. I finally understood that feeling not from a place of loss, but from a place of abundance, on a random Tuesday.

I felt proud that I didn’t need a tragedy or the birth of my own child to feel this. I felt it now, in the quiet simplicity of an average day.

The lesson is clear: Let’s not wait for the storm to appreciate the anchor. Let’s not wait for the silence to miss the sound of their laughter. Let’s see our people, truly see them, and hug them tight on the ordinary days. That is when gratitude matters most.