Hard News Can Wait When Your Presence Is Love

On the morning of my daughter’s high school graduation last spring, I received difficult news.

I stared at the screen, took three deep breaths, and weighed what came next. Replying right then would have meant pausing everything to craft a thoughtful response — one that would almost certainly pull me out of the joy of the day and into an emotional spiral.

So I put my phone away. Turned back to the mirror. And let three quiet words rise inside me:

Only Love Today.

The clutch as a lock box

In the car with several family members, I considered sharing the news out loud. But I knew saying it would cast a shadow over what was supposed to be our most celebratory moment.

My mom once told me after I delayed telling my own children something hard: "It’s okay to give yourself time to process difficult things before helping anyone else do the same."

There is this unspoken pressure to deliver bad news the instant we receive it, as if speed equals responsibility. But I’ve come to believe that giving ourselves space to breathe, think, and feel is not avoidance. It’s wisdom.

I imagined my small beige clutch as a lock box. Placed the bad news inside. Sealed it shut. There was nothing I could do about the situation at that moment — so I let it rest there while I turned my full attention to what mattered most: witnessing this milestone in my daughter’s life.

A handkerchief and a memory

Before sealing away the weight, I reached for something to anchor me — an embroidered handkerchief sent by a dear friend. Tucked inside was a message:

"Hazel, you are worthy of pretty handkerchiefs as you plant pauses and behold the beauty of Avery’s graduation."

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It felt like my friend had known exactly what I would need. What she didn’t know was that my 85-year-old dad carried a white hanky in his pocket every single day of my life. Having this reminder of him on that day felt especially poignant.

A month before graduation, he’d made a difficult phone call to Avery — his voice catching as he explained that his health wouldn’t allow him to travel for the ceremony. I saw disappointment flash across my daughter’s face. But just as quickly, she collected herself and assured her beloved grandpa that his safety and well-being mattered more than anything else.

The empty chair

I knew then how important it would be to share this experience with my dad later. I wanted him to know not just what took place, but how the experience felt.

As I surveyed rows and rows of chairs that would soon hold graduates, I thought about each one carrying its own story of quiet triumph. I looked around at proud, smiling families eagerly awaiting their child’s entrance. And I said a quiet prayer for the family of the graduate who is no longer with us — their empty chair marked by a graduation gown and a white rose.

Staying present in that moment was the gift I gave myself, so that later, I could give it to my dad.

Fourteen years of showing up

Avery and her fellow graduates entered the convention center in their caps and gowns. The traditional graduation march filled the room, and tears began to flow.

Fourteen years earlier, at Avery’s preschool graduation, I’d had a painful awakening. I realized I was missing my own life — living distracted, self-critical, always managing — and with that, missing the chance to truly know my child. That day, as tiny graduates sang songs about growing up, I cried tears of gratitude. Because of that moment, I believed there was a good chance I would truly know my daughter.

I wrote in my journal then: "I can picture it — my curly-haired Noticer of life brightening the whole auditorium with her contagious smile. I’ll lean over and whisper, ‘I know her; I know every good thing about her.’"

To stand there all those years later, watching that same bright soul walk across the stage — and to actually know her — felt like a miracle.

Just today. Just this moment.

Rarely does life unfold exactly as we imagined. Even when the plan seems to be coming together, it can suddenly unravel. That’s when we have to return to what we can control — and our attention is one of those things.

• We can stay fixated on how it was supposed to be… or protect what remains.
• We can choose to stay present for what is still ours to celebrate.
• Not forever. Not perfectly. Just today. Just this moment.

That is what I managed to do at my daughter’s high school graduation.

Today I see the proof on that handkerchief — decorated with faint traces of makeup and dried tears. Evidence that I was all there: sitting with joy and sorrow, the regrets and the grace, filling the gaps and the empty seats with all the love and presence a heart can hold.

The Morning Reset

Hard news arrived by text on my daughter’s graduation day. Instead of reacting immediately, I placed it in an imaginary lock box — my clutch — and gave myself permission to be fully present for the moment in front of me. Sometimes the most loving thing you can do is wait before passing the weight along.

FAQ

A note from Hazel

I used to think staying present meant having everything figured out. Now I know it just means showing up — imperfectly, fully, right here. The hard news can wait. Your presence is the gift.

The Only Love Today 2027 page-a-day calendar offers one compassionate reminder each day to come back to what matters. Calendars begin shipping in August, and pre-ordering helps ensure you receive yours — especially if you want extras for gifts. You can pre-order on Amazon, Walmart, Books-a-Million, or BulkBookStore. Some international retailers carry it as well.