I spent a weekend with two lifelong friends recently and we were discussing all the ways our days — lives, really — have a way of getting away from us.

“And you know how guilty we feel doing anything for ourselves,” my friend said.

I don’t, actually.

I mean, I do. In theory. I know how our culture conspires to make us feel guilty. I know I have given into that guilt at different points. I know they have been my unhealthiest points. I know I’m trying not to return to those points.

I know my mom is my North Star on this. (On so many things. But especially on this.)

As a kid, I watched my mom make space and time for things she loved. Birding. Traveling. Long walks in the woods. Restoring natural areas to their native habitat. Always with friends. As an adult, I’m watching her continue to do these things.

If she felt guilty about any of it (and I hope she didn’t), she hasn’t shown it. Her joy looks purposeful and protected.

My dad, for his part, has never seemed anything but delighted by her joy. He generally gains happiness from other people’s happiness and no one more so than my mom. Their marriage is one of the most beautiful pairings I’ve witnessed in this life. I have tears in my eyes just typing this sentence.

I’m aware that what I saw on the outside doesn’t necessarily reveal the full range of conflict — internal or external — on the inside. But I’m also aware that what I saw gave me permission to prioritize friendship and adventure and purpose and joy. Not just permission, actually. A gentle, constant nudge toward them.

I’m also aware, especially in this season of gratitude, that this approach sits at the center of so much of what I cherish most in my life. And I have my mom to thank for that. Thank you, mom, if you’re reading this.

In my Balancing Act Facebook group, I asked readers to share examples of people they’re grateful for, people who shaped their approach to life. Stories poured in. Here are a few.

“My maternal grandmother,” Susan Bendig wrote. “She became a nurse when women were expected to marry and not have a career. She encouraged me to become whatever I wanted to be. She always encouraged me during the difficult times when my parents did not. She has been gone a very long time, but I still hear her voice when I have to make a serious decision.”

Walter Faber wrote about his fifth-grade teacher, Mrs. Arlene Langley.

“My dad died that year and I was an angry, lost little boy,” Faber wrote. She encouraged me. Guided me. Taught me. Was patient with me, despite my bad behavior. She understood where it was all coming from. To say that woman saved my life is a gross understatement.”

For Judy Ferraro, it’s her Uncle Bernie, who died 3 years ago,

“He introduced me to Frank Sinatra, Sammy Davis Jr., Ella Fitzgerald,” Ferraro wrote. “He brought me to Sox games that turned into me being a season ticket holder for nearly 40 years. He took me to joints in Chicago for pizza and burgers that were different than the suburban pizza and burgers I was used to. He brought me to Old Town where I developed a love for improv comedy. He loved talking politics with me. And he made me laugh til the day he died.”

Jessica Bazzarre Byerly will never forget her recess supervisor, Mrs. Carol Saines.

“When I moved in first grade to a new town and a new school, I was really shy and awkward,” Byerly wrote. “I had a really hard time making friends. I spent most recesses alone standing to the side in the cold watching the other kids play, praying that recess would end soon.”

Mrs. Saines noticed.

“She saw that I didn’t have anyone to play with or talk to and she came over one day and just started talking to me. She was wearing this big red coat and I thought she was a super hero. I thought she hung the moon in the sky and I looked for her at recess every day,” she wrote. “I kept in touch with her as I grew older and was thankfully able to eventually make some friends my own age. I never forgot her kindness. She passed away far too young from health complications when I was in middle school. Her funeral was the first one for a loved one I ever attended. Whenever I encounter someone who looks lonely, left out or needs a friend, I remember Mrs. Saines and try to go out of my way to make them feel cared for and included.”

Terry Parrilli wrote about her dad.

“He had four daughters and never made me think he longed for a son,” she wrote. “He taught us how to bait a hook and fish. Vacations to the big outdoors in the Midwest and Canada instilled a love of travel. Because of him, I became a fan of baseball, football, Indy cars, Mad magazine, feeding squirrels, cooking and growing tomatoes. He loved to entertain neighbors, old Navy buddies, co-workers and friends and threw boisterous theme parties. A kid at heart, he created a giant jack-o'-lantern ghost on a ladder with a sheet and broom to put in our window every Halloween. He treated everyone with respect and dignity. The garbage collectors, conductors on the train, custodians, cashiers, busboys and taxi drivers. I try to live my life as he did and make him proud. Sadly, he died young. But his influence on me is constant.”

These are just a few of the stories pouring in. I’ll include more in another column. If you have one, email me at heidikstevens@gmail.com. Or, even better, share it with someone you know and love so it can shape and sustain them too.

©2025 Tribune News Service. Distributed by Tribune Content Agency, LLC.