The Pace of Love

 

My mother moves slowly these days.

What feels small to me—like moving the caravan to a new stand—hits her like an avalanche. Today, the news unsettled her so much she couldn’t even eat. It sat on her like a weight. And I see that now. I didn’t always, but I do now.

She walks carefully, like the earth might shift beneath her. The steps in and out of the caravan are steep for her body. Her bones don’t trust gravity like they used to. She tires quickly, and her world is smaller now—but in that smallness, she pays attention to everything. She dozes over a book and then recites the neighbour’s conversation with precision. She hears and remembers more than we think.

So I go on my runs. Sometimes once, sometimes three times a day. I need that speed. That fire in my chest. But then, I lace up again and walk with her. Slowly. The kind of slow that teaches you a different kind of presence. She walks like every step is a negotiation with her body—but she does it. And I do it with her.

At dusk, when shadows lengthen and confidence shrinks, I go with her to the bathroom. She doesn’t ask; I just go. In the daylight, she’s brave. In the twilight, we lean on each other.

And no—I don’t let her just sit and watch while I do everything. That’s not kindness. That’s a quiet death. I nudge her to wash a dish, hang a towel, fetch something. Not because I need the help, but because she does. Because movement is medicine, and contribution is dignity.

Patience with our elders isn’t just about slowing down. It’s about seeing them—not just who they are now, but who they’ve always been. It’s about respect, even when we’re tired. Especially when we’re tired.

She’s been there for me in more ways than I can count. I won’t let go of that thread now. I won’t make her feel like a burden. Not on my watch.

And today, when I asked what would make her happy, she said,

“Just you. You being happy.”

That’s both the most beautiful and the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.

But I get it. I really do.