#35 The day our son could have died — and what it taught me about what really matters

Reflections on life's uncertainties and the importance of presence

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I’m Ruhie — writer, doctor, mum & grief advocate. I don’t have it all figured out, and you don’t need to either. Let’s walk this path together with honesty, intention, and compassion.

Some of you may have seen the Note I shared a few days ago — a quick reflection on a close call we had at my son’s school that day.

I’ve been sitting with that moment ever since. Because what started out as a regular day could have ended in every parent’s worst nightmare.

When I picked him up from school that day, he didn’t seem worried. He sounded intrigued as he told me a crack had appeared in the classroom ceiling and some dust had fallen onto his desk. He seemed more concerned that his treasured Pokémon ball had got dirty.

It was only when the school emailed later that afternoon that I realised just how serious it had been — a section of the ceiling had collapsed. Right above his desk.

By pure luck, the kids weren’t at their desks when it happened — they’d just moved to the floor to read. If it had happened five minutes earlier or five minutes later, the outcome could have been unthinkable.

Photo by Cosiela Borta on Unsplash

I keep coming back to that morning. The ordinariness of it.

Breakfast half-eaten. Shoes on. “Come on, we’ll be late!”

A quick hug at the gate. A kiss on the head he tried to dodge (because apparently, almost-seven-year-old boys don’t do public displays of affection — especially not from their mums).

“See you in the afternoon!” I shouted across my shoulder as I wrangled the baby in my arms and raced after our four-year-old who’d already run off.

We had no idea how close we came to never seeing our eldest again.

I know my reaction is partly a trauma response. My brain has grown used to doing what grief taught it to do — running through all the “what ifs,” scanning for the worst, replaying moments that could have gone differently. Because I’ve lived that story before. My dad had a terminal illness, so we knew he was going to die — but I had no idea it would be on that random Monday in January. I left the house that night not realising it would be the last time I saw him.

Since then, I’ve carried with me a deep awareness of how fragile life really is. This near miss with my son brought all of that flooding back. If you’ve ever lost someone, you know: everything can change in an instant.

This realisation is terrifying. But it also brings clarity. When something shakes you like this — and you see just how thin the veil is between ordinary life and unimaginable loss — it strips everything back. What truly matters rises to the surface.

The mess in the kitchen doesn’t matter. The unanswered email doesn’t matter. The fight about shoes or bedtime or who forgot to pack the water bottle — it feels urgent, but it’s not.

What mattered was that he was here. That he got to come home. That I still get to love him in real time.

I held him longer that night. I really looked at him. I was able to tap into more patience and presence. Not because I suddenly became a perfect parent — but because I’d been given perspective. I could have lost him. I didn’t. And that felt like a kind of miracle.

Photo by Nadine E on Unsplash

We say life is short, but most of the time, we don’t live like it. It’s easy to forget. Life is loud and relentless. We get pulled back into the chaos and hustle. And no doubt, I won’t get it right all the time. I’ll still get annoyed at traffic, or lose patience with my kids, or stress over things that — in the grand scheme — don’t matter much.

But I don’t want to forget this moment.

I want to hold onto the image of the dust on his Pokemon ball. The look on his face when he told me about it. The cold wash of realisation when I read the school email. The pounding of my heart as the “what ifs” rushed in.

It reminded me to live more fully, because life is fragile.

To love harder, because there are no guarantees.

To pause, soften, savour — even in the middle of the mess — because nothing is promised.

We never know how many ordinary mornings we have left. But we do get to decide how we show up for the ones we have.

So if you’re reading this today, maybe take a moment. Look someone in the eye. Say the thing you’ve been holding back. Hug the person you usually rush past. Forgive the stuff that doesn’t matter. Be here — even just for a second — without distraction.

Because this moment matters. The people in front of you matter. And you don’t need grief — or a near-miss — to live like that’s true.

Thanks so much for reading!

Until next time,

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Have you ever had a moment like this that shook you awake to what really matters? How did it change how you show up each day?

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