I keep telling my mom the same story every day. Sometimes it’s about what happened at work, or a funny thing I saw on the street, or even just how my coffee tasted that morning. At first glance, it might seem strange—why repeat myself? But when I look closer, there’s something comforting and even important about this habit.
Our brains love patterns. When we do something over and over, it becomes easier, almost automatic. Think about brushing your teeth or tying your shoes—you don’t have to think hard about it anymore. Telling the same story is a bit like that. It’s familiar ground for both me and my mom. There’s no pressure to come up with something new; we both know what to expect.
There’s also a sense of connection in repetition. Sharing the same story isn’t really about the information anymore—it’s about sharing time together, creating a little ritual that belongs just to us. It doesn’t matter if she already knows how my day went; what matters is that we go through this moment together every day.
Sometimes I wonder if I do this because part of me wants things to stay the same for a while longer. Life changes fast—people move away, jobs shift, relationships evolve—but our daily story stays steady. It becomes an anchor in all that change.
And maybe there’s something deeper going on too: our brains tend to hold onto things left unfinished or unresolved much more than things neatly wrapped up and put away somewhere else entirely inside ourselves where they can’t bother us again until next time around when suddenly everything comes rushing back all at once without warning whatsoever except maybe some small trigger nobody else would notice but you instantly recognize as significant beyond words spoken aloud between two people who care deeply enough not only listen but truly hear each other out loud together quietly sitting side by side saying nothing yet understanding everything perfectly well anyway despite appearances otherwise sometimes especially then most importantly perhaps above all else always remember why these moments matter so much more than any single word ever could express fully enough alone without context shared history built slowly brick by brick conversation after conversation year after year until one day looking back realizing those were never really stories being told so much as love letters written live every single morning afternoon evening night whenever possible whenever needed most urgently silently screaming “I am here with you still” over again endlessly forevermore amen amen amen
