Last night I took a break from work to drive my son to a Dungeons & Dragons game.
Dad drives kid to friend’s house. Dad comes home. Dad eats dinner and gets back to work. Ordinary stuff.
Except I was on a scooter. Driving past rice paddies. In Vietnam. And the kids my son was going to play with are from all over the world.
And I almost didn’t even think about it.
Just a Tuesday
I live in a Vietnamese city. English isn’t the main language here. Almost everyone drives a motorbike. My family worldschools, which really just means our kids learn by being in the world instead of sitting in a classroom. Last night, that meant my son needed a ride so kids from different countries could roll dice together.
Five years ago I couldn’t have pictured that sentence. Last night it was just… Tuesday.
I put my son on the back of the scooter. Drove through the city. Dropped him off. Came home. Ate. Worked.
That’s the part that got me.
I Remember Being Terrified
The first time I got on a scooter here, I was gripping the handlebars like they owed me money. Motorbikes everywhere. Honking. Life happening on every inch of road. I was nervous and excited and honestly a little overwhelmed. Everything was new — the smells, the heat, the beautiful chaos.
That feeling — being so awake because nothing is familiar — it’s hard to explain. You can’t go on autopilot. Your whole body pays attention because it has no choice.
It was incredible.
We’re Weirdly Good at This
Here’s the thing though. We adjust. To almost anything. You move somewhere you can’t read the signs and within a few months you stop noticing. You white-knuckle a scooter for a week and then one day you’re weaving through traffic thinking about what’s for dinner.
That’s kind of amazing. I think it’s how people survive hard things. How immigrants build lives. How new parents eventually sleep again.
My brain looked at “driving a motorbike past rice paddies to take your kid to an international D&D game” and went, yeah, this is fine. This is just what we do now.
I mean. Credit where it’s due.
But Something Gets Lost
Here’s the part I’m wrestling with.
When something stops being new, you stop feeling it. The thing that used to make your heart pound doesn’t even register. And that’s kind of a bummer.
Nobody’s life falls apart because they got comfortable on a scooter. But something real fades. That I can’t believe this is my life feeling — it doesn’t stick around. It’s got a shelf life, and it’s shorter than you’d think.
And it’s not just a travel thing. The job you were thrilled to land. The home you saved for. The baby you couldn’t wait to hold. At some point it all becomes wallpaper. Still there. Still good. You just stop seeing it.
I think that’s worth being honest about.
Learning to Sit in It
So last night, somewhere between dropping my son off and pulling back into our alley, I just paused.
I didn’t force some big moment. I just noticed.
I’m on a scooter. In Vietnam. My son is playing D&D with kids from all over the world. We live here. This is our daily life. And even though it feels normal now — it’s not. It’s beautiful and strange. My brain just stopped treating it that way.
I don’t think the answer is chasing new things forever. You can’t hold onto that first-time feeling. But I think there’s something to stopping now and then and remembering what your “ordinary” looks like from the outside. What it would’ve looked like to you five years ago.
Not to perform gratitude. Just to remember.
What’s Your Rice Paddy?
What’s the thing in your life that used to feel amazing and now just feels like a regular night? The thing a younger you would lose their mind over — but you barely think about?
Maybe it’s your kid. Maybe it’s your marriage. Maybe it’s where you live or the life you built without even noticing you were building it.
I’m not saying cry about it. Just sit in it for a second tonight.
We get used to anything. That’s both the gift and the cost.
I’m still figuring out how to hold both.