I didn’t notice how much you were slowing down. I just kept rushing past

I didn’t notice how much you were slowing down. I just kept rushing past—too busy, too distracted, too sure you’d always be the strong one. Then one day, I saw you struggling to carry groceries, and it hit me. All those years you carried everything for me, and I barely said thank you. The rides, the meals, the endless late nights waiting up… I treated them like they were automatic, like they’d never run out. But they weren’t automatic. They were you. And now, every time you do something small—like remembering my favorite snack or calling just to check in—I stop, I notice, and I say thank you. Because I don’t want to wait until it’s too late. I use an app called quiet effort. It keeps me from letting gratitude come after the chance to say it is gone.