The Solo Pour

My life is measured in sixty-minute increments.

That is the time it takes to drive from my office at the university to her front door. It is the bridge between being the Dean of Students—the one with the answers, the budget, and the crisis management—and being the daughter who just needs to make sure the fridge is full and the phone was answered.

Every day, there is the call. Every other week, there is the drive.

In between, there is the mental tab that never quite closes. It is open during the 9:00 AM staff meeting. It is open while I am navigating a student’s emergency. It sits in the back of my mind, a low-humming frequency of worry and responsibility that I carry into every room.

When I finally sit at my desk with my first cup of coffee, it is the only time the world is still. This “solo pour” is not just a ritual; it is a necessity. It is the five minutes where I am not managing a campus, and I am not managing her life. I am just… here.

There is a real grit to this, the exhaustion of the constant check-ins and the weight of the distance. But there is a quiet grace in it, too. It is the heavy, honest work of showing up, even when you are tired, even when the job is loud, and even when the road is long.

I am learning to find the stillness in the middle of the commute. One sip. One mile. One day at a time.

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