“What Slips Through Our Fingers”

Have you ever tried to catch vomit in the middle of a gas station Subway in rural Florida?

Funny question, I know. But I did. 

Unsuccessfully.

Motherhood has a way of turning you into a reflex machine. I can deflect random objects thrown at my face without flinching, grab a falling sippy cup midair, or snatch a toddler teetering on the edge of disaster. But apparently, one thing you cannot catch—no matter how quick your hands—

is vomit.

Picture this: we’re hours deep into a ten-hour road trip with three kids—ages seven, two, and one. Everyone is cranky, hungry, and desperate for a leg stretch. Subway seemed like the best option. I should’ve known trouble was brewing in my two-year-old’s stomach, but hindsight is always a smug little companion.

We ordered. We stood at the register. Then I saw the face.

Parents, you know the one.

That split second where you realize the countdown has begun, and the “oh no” moment is inevitable.

And then—it happened. All over my cupped hands and the tile floor beneath them. Because of course, one cannot successfully catch fluid with bare hands, no matter how noble the attempt.

So what does one do when standing at the register of a mediocre sandwich shop with puke in their palms? Apparently, my answer was to panic. My husband was still processing the physics of what just happened. My oldest daughter stood frozen, eyes wide at the theatrics. The baby was blissfully unaware. And me? I stood there, turning beet red, immobilized by the absurdity of it all.

That’s the thing about maternal reflexes—they aren’t always about logic. I didn’t decide to try to catch it. I just did. Somewhere deep inside, my body reacted before my brain had the chance to advise otherwise.

So yes, my Subway moment was mortifying, disgusting, and utterly unglamorous. But in my own way, I like to think it was impressive too. Proof of reflexes honed not in gyms or training courses, but in the trenches of motherhood—where sometimes your job is simply to react, even if what you’re catching is, well… uncatchable.

But here’s the part I couldn’t see then among the hurt vanity and stench: not everything is meant to be caught.

Life has handed me plenty of moments since then where I tried to intercept someone else’s mess before it hit the ground—only to discover I couldn’t contain it, and in trying, I made it messier. Sometimes the most loving instinct is to rush in, to hold out your hands, to say, I’ll take it for you. But not every burden is meant to be absorbed by us and not every crisis can be contained.

Some things need to fall. Some things need to splatter. Some things need to be seen for what they are before the healing or cleaning can begin. Trying to hold it all, to keep it all neat and invisible, only delays the inevitable—and leaves us standing in public, dripping with someone else’s situation.

Motherhood—and life—teach us this: discernment matters as much as reflex. Reflex says, catch it all. Wisdom says, let some things land where they must.

Because maybe the point isn’t to stop every mess, but to show up after it happens, steady enough to help clean it, strong enough to hold the child who feels emptied out, and gentle enough to remind ourselves that the mess isn’t failure. It’s just life, raw and unfiltered.

And sometimes, what slips through our fingers is exactly what was meant to.

The truth is, we can exhaust ourselves trying to keep everything contained: emotions, relationships, disappointments, grief. But just like vomit in a subpar Subway, some things are simply uncatchable. They demand to hit the ground, to be exposed, to be dealt with in their raw form. Only then can we step in and begin the work of tending to what’s real instead of clutching at what’s already gone.

It’s humbling, but also freeing because once you stop trying to hold what was never meant for your hands, your energy is released for what truly is: love, presence, and the steady reassurance that while you can’t catch it all, you can keep showing up.

And I’d like to think that this is the lesson hidden in one messy, mortifyingly unpleasant moment:

Not every spill is yours to stop.

But every mess can still become an opportunity to exercise grace… only preferably not in a subpar gas station Subway in rural Florida.

With You in the Trenches (But Carrying Gloves Now),

Emily

Ash and Bloom