Some days, success means checking everything off your list.
Other days, it means finding both of your toddler’s shoes and getting out the door before someone needs a complete change of clothes.
That someone could be anyone in my family who’s near a toddler wielding his Go-Gurt as a sword—including the dog.
I spend much of my professional life making decisions, answering questions, and helping people work through complicated problems. You might think that would make getting a small child out the door straightforward.
You would be mistaken.
Toddlers have their own priorities, and punctuality rarely makes the list. Their interruptions can turn even the most carefully planned morning into a series of small emergencies—and remind me that not everything important can be scheduled.
The Plan Meets Real Life
I love having a plan. There’s something reassuring about knowing what needs to happen and how the pieces will fit together.
Then real life enters the conversation.
A patient needs more time. Something unexpected comes up at work. A family responsibility demands attention. A toddler decides the bubble machine must run continuously and cannot understand what a dead battery is.
One interruption leads to another, and the manageable morning plan can feel very different by day’s end.
It’s easy to notice what remains unfinished: the unanswered message, the laundry that made it through the washer but plans to live in the dryer, or the task moved to tomorrow’s list for the third day in a row.
When the day feels defined by what went wrong or what remains undone, it becomes even easier to overlook the moments that required our time and care.
What’s harder is remembering to count what happened in between.
The Things That Don’t Make the List
Listening when someone needs to talk takes time.
So does comforting a child, explaining something again, helping someone ask for what they need, or sitting with a person through uncertainty.
These moments may not leave you with a finished project or satisfying check mark. In fact, they often create new interruptions and make the original plan even harder to complete.
But they count.
I know this when I’m caring for patients. If someone needs a few extra minutes to tell me what’s really worrying them, those minutes matter. I don’t question whether they were worth the time simply because they delayed something else.
I’m learning to remember that at home, too.
Sometimes the interruption is a little boy asking me to stop and see what he sees. I can’t always stop immediately, but I don’t want to measure the whole day by efficiency. He is not going to go to bed thinking about his folded laundry, he is going to recap the quality time he spent with his mom and dad. The moments that disrupt the schedule may also be the moments that reveal what matters most.
Remembering that helps me move from judging the day to offering myself the same understanding I would offer someone else.
Giving Myself the Grace I Offer Other People
When someone I care about is overwhelmed, I don’t ask why they haven’t accomplished more.
I recognize that they’re carrying a lot. I see their effort, even when things remain unfinished, and remind them that they’re human.
Extending that understanding to myself takes more practice.
Being capable doesn’t mean having unlimited capacity. Loving my work and family doesn’t mean I’ll never feel tired or pulled in several directions. And a difficult afternoon doesn’t get to write the review of my entire life.
Sometimes I need to take a breath, say a prayer, and decide what deserves my attention next. Sometimes I need to apologize and try again. Sometimes I need to go to bed and let the laundry continue its extended stay in the laundry room.
These choices may not look like traditional accomplishments, but they are ways of responding with intention instead of letting exhaustion define the day.
That shift also changes how I think about success.
A Different Way to Count the Day
I still want to accomplish things. The responsibilities are real, and ignoring the dishes has yet to make them wash themselves.
But alongside “What did I get done?” I’m making room for other questions:
Did I listen well?
Did I make time for someone I love?
Did I handle something difficult better than I might have before?
Did I recognize when I needed help?
These questions offer a fuller picture than a task list can. They make room for the work that happens quietly, through patience, presence, repair, and care.
If your day didn’t go as planned, perhaps there’s something worth counting that you’ve overlooked: a conversation, a small kindness, or a moment when you started over instead of giving up.
Success may not always look like completion. Sometimes it looks like staying present through the interruption, extending grace when the plan falls apart, and recognizing that a meaningful day can contain unfinished tasks.
And if you got everyone out the door wearing both shoes, count that, too.
I certainly am.