I didn’t plan this picture.

That’s the part people don’t see when they comment on how perfectly it was recreated or how uncanny the resemblance is. What looks intentional or staged was actually the result of something far rarer: all of us being in the same place at the same time, and being present enough to notice.

We hadn’t all been together for my sister’s birthday like this since we all left home in the 1980s. Decades. That fact is easy to skip past until you stop and name it. Life didn’t pull us apart in dramatic ways—it just kept moving. Moves. Marriages. Careers. Kids. Losses. Responsibilities. We stayed connected, but being together became increasingly rare. And then, suddenly, for my sis's birthday, we were there.

The only thing that was even loosely planned was the cake—and even that was prompted the morning of, when my youngest sister asked if I could send the old photo. Everything else happened in real time. We showed up. We laughed. We pulled out the picture. We shifted places. We leaned in. No one said, “Let’s do this later.” No one dismissed it as silly. We were all present enough to say yes while the moment was in front of us.

That’s what stayed with me afterward—how easily this could have slipped by.

If even one of us had been distracted by Christmas to-do lists. If someone had been “too busy” and needed to get back. If we’d decided it wasn’t worth the effort or waited for a more convenient time. That photo would still exist only in the past, and this one would never have been taken.

It reminded me of something simple and easy to forget: presence is what gives moments their weight. Planning might create a little order, but presence is what allows joy and meaning to actually land.

And then there was another layer to this picture—one most people wouldn’t know unless they grew up with us.

When we were kids, my mom often gave my sister a simple brown cake for her birthday. Her birthday falls just days before Christmas, and in the rush of the season, and her celebration like her cake was practical. Efficient. Unadorned.

But to a little girl watching her siblings’ birthdays who fell further from Christmas, it landed different. Their cakes felt more celebrated. Hers felt… brown. She even named it—the brown cake. It became shorthand for feeling slightly overshadowed, slightly missed, even though no one meant it that way.

That story stayed with her and we did something small and unexpectedly powerful for her. My littlest sis made the brown cake on purpose. Not as an afterthought. Not as a joke alone. But as a loving acknowledgment of that memory—and then paired it with the recreated photo.

When the doors opened and the birthday girl saw each of us walk in, one by one, her joy was immediate and unfiltered. And then the cake came out and she absolutely loved it!

In that moment, everything landed at once—the memory, the humor, the care, the fact that we remembered. Her reaction wasn’t polite appreciation. It was full-bodied joy. Surprise. Gratitude that couldn’t be contained.

That’s another thing that people can miss about moments like this: they don’t just entertain. They can heal.

What looked like a playful callback was actually a quiet acknowledgment. A way of saying to her, We see you. We remember. You mattered then, and you matter now. It didn’t erase the past—it softened it. It took some times that once carried small disappointments and reminded her of her belonging.

None of this was dramatic while it was happening. No speeches. No orchestrated emotion. Just laughter, warmth, and that unmistakable feeling of being known... and together.

This is why presence matters.

Meaning doesn’t always live in big gestures. Sometimes it lives in remembering an old story... and honoring it without defensiveness. In showing up with enough awareness to recognize when an ordinary moment is asking more of you.

Be here, now.

That 90 minutes together gave us more than a recreated photo. It gave us a shared now. It braided past and present together with care and reminded us that family history isn’t fixed—it can still be touched, reshaped, and reframed when people are willing to notice and lean in.

The brown cake was never really about cake....It was about being seen.

This time, we were—fully, joyfully, and together with all of us in mom's dinning room.

And that’s what made it special.

So I have to ask... where in your life might presence—not more effort—be the thing that changes everything? Were you able to capture some of that presence this holiday season?

If finding presence feels challenging, I'd love to invite you to join me for a free Sunday Planning session. We'll gather online to set intentions and plan the week ahead in a way that brings more joy and satisfaction to your days. The next session is Sunday, January 11th at 6:00 PM Eastern

Just reply to my email to let me know you're interested by Friday, January 9th and I'll send you a ZOOM invite that day.

Here's to making 2026 a year with more presence and joy.