Deer In Headlines

By Gery Deer

One summer afternoon, not that long ago, I was sitting near the beach at the lake where I live when I noticed families scattered across the shoreline. Children splashed, parents chatted, and a young lifeguard watched everything with quiet confidence. It looked ordinary, which is probably why it caught my attention.

A little girl sat alone on a wooden bench swing, happily working through a Drumstick ice cream cone. She wore a bathing suit covered with colorful cupcakes. Her grandparents rested beneath a nearby shade tree, smiling and keeping watch without interrupting. She seemed completely content. She had sunshine, a swing, an ice cream cone, a lake, and people who loved her. What else did she need? Apparently, nothing. She was, as they say, living her best life.

That phrase, “living your best life,” has become part of our modern lexicon. We hear it or read it nearly every day. It appears beneath vacation photos, fitness posts, images of expensive dinners, and carefully staged moments designed to convince everyone that life’s rewards have reached their highest possible level. Somewhere along the way, we started believing that our best life should be permanent. I am not sure that is true. How could it be? Life is all about change. We may not like it, but it is.

Maybe living your best life is not a destination. Maybe it is something that quietly appears for a few minutes before slipping away. Maybe those instances are unrelated to the ones that preceded or followed them.

That little girl was not thinking about tomorrow. She was not worried about retirement accounts, deadlines, insurance premiums, or whether mindless online doomscrollers approved of her choices. She was not comparing herself with strangers or wondering if she should have accomplished more by now. She simply existed inside that afternoon, on that swing, with that ice cream cone. It was her entire world.

Adults rarely allow themselves that gift. We’re always planning away every moment. We carry calendars in our pockets and unfinished conversations in our heads. We worry about what happened yesterday and rehearse what might happen tomorrow. Even while sitting beside a beautiful lake, we are often somewhere else entirely.

Children remind us that joy does not always arrive wrapped inside major accomplishments. Sometimes it comes wearing cupcake swimwear, dripping vanilla ice cream down your hand while your feet swing freely above the ground. Those moments still exist for us, but they become harder to notice because we keep expecting fireworks instead of fireflies.

Looking back, I doubt that little girl will remember that specific afternoon. The details will probably fade from her memory over time, like an old photo in a scrapbook. Yet something more important will remain. She will remember what it felt like to be safe, loved, carefree, and wonderfully present.

Perhaps that is what we are really chasing when we talk about living our best lives. Not perfection, but presence. Maybe our best lives are never measured in years, careers, possessions, or achievements. Maybe they are measured in moments that seem almost too ordinary to matter until we realize they were the moments that mattered most.

Years from now, I probably will not remember what color the lifeguard’s chair was or how many people were swimming. I might forget the weather forecast or whether the parking lot was full. But I have never forgotten that little girl because she unknowingly answered a question adults keep asking.

Happiness is rarely complicated. We complicate it. We convince ourselves that one more promotion, one bigger house, one better vacation, or one perfect opportunity will finally unlock contentment. Then we reach those milestones and immediately invent another finish line.

Children, thankfully, have not learned that habit yet. They celebrate the cone before worrying about the wrapper. They feel the breeze before checking the forecast. They wave at strangers without wondering whether it looks silly. There is wisdom there if we are willing to see it.

Perhaps growing older does not have to mean growing away from wonder. Maybe the real challenge is protecting enough of our childlike gratitude to recognize life’s quiet gifts while they are still in our hands today and simply say thanks.