The moment I missed and what it taught me

On my way back from the gym yesterday, I stopped at a little corner of nature I often visit. There’s a patch of grass near a quiet lake, a place where ducks gather and the trees lean softly into the sky. I’ve come to know the rhythm of this spot—the birdsongs, a cat that occasionally hangs around and the family of ducks that calls it home.

That day, I found a clean patch of grass untouched by duck prints, took off my shoes, and let my feet meet the earth. The ground was a little wet from the rain. I looked out across the lake. The ducklings I’d seen two weeks earlier had grown. They were all still together—eating, waddling, occasionally flapping. A little wild family, right there in front of me :)

I was going to text a friend while I sat down. She loves ducks, and I thought of her as soon as I saw them. I took out my phone and started recording a short video for her.

And then, something magical happened.

The entire little duck family began slowly making their way toward me, nibbling the grass as they came. One of the younger ones got so close, I reached out gently, barely touching the feathers of its back. To my surprise, it didn’t flinch. It kept nibbling, unbothered by my hand.

It was a perfect, fleeting moment of connection.

And then, without even thinking, I pressed record again on my phone—to capture it, to share it, to keep it. And just like that… the moment vanished. The duckling turned and wandered off.

And I felt it—this subtle sense of loss.

I’d had the moment. I’d felt it in my body, in my heart. But by trying to hold onto it, I’d slipped out of it.

I put my phone down and sat there in silence.

It made me wonder… how many moments do we miss while trying to capture them?

How often do we trade presence for permanence, aliveness for documentation?

I don’t usually take many photos. Only when something touches me. But this moment made me reflect on how automatic it’s become to reach for my phone when life gets beautiful. As if proof of the moment is more valuable than the moment itself....

We live through our screens so much—recording, posting, saving memories we may never return to. But where are we, really, when life is unfolding?

We sit with someone we love across a candlelit table at a restaurant, and instead of looking into their eyes, we’re scrolling. We go on holiday and rather than soaking it in, we try to frame it. And I get it—it’s not wrong to take a photo. But maybe… just maybe… we can wait a little longer before reaching for the phone.

Maybe we can be in the moment first.

Let it land.

Feel it in our skin.

Let our bodies be the camera.

Because isn’t the feeling the part that stays with us? The warmth of the duckling’s feathers, the stillness of the lake, the quiet awe of connecting with this little creature. That lives in me now. No photo could hold it the way my body does.

I want to be more mindful of how I use my phone.

More mindful of what I reach for when I’m moved.

Because sometimes, the most precious moments can’t—and shouldn’t—be caught.

They’re meant to be lived.

And when I see people out together, faces lit by phone screens instead of candlelight… I feel something tender break in me. We have each other. Right here. Living, breathing, human connection. And yet so often, we miss it.

This is a bigger topic. I could write for days. But for now, I’ll leave you with this simple invitation:

The next time something moves you—deeply, beautifully—pause. Let yourself feel it, like really feel it. And maybe, just for that moment, you could let it be enough.

Love,

Rosie x