Seven Years to Breakfast

Sometimes, I have an idea and I can’t let it go, I white-knuckle it until I realize, often too late, that it’s just not working. Out of fear, or passion, or sheer stubbornness, I hold on to an idea, a value, or a practice long after it’s stopped serving me.

Growing up, both my parents worked - a lot. I remember sometimes resenting the fact that I was often picked up by a nanny or had to stay after school, while my classmates were ferried home by their moms and dads. Later in life, I came to appreciate how deeply they both loved their work, and the quiet power that my mother’s independence modeled for me from an early age.

One thing they were adamant about, though, was family meals. Breakfast and dinner were sacred. We all sat down in the dining room to enjoy good food and to connect. The table was always set, beautifully—placemats, cloth napkins, proper silverware, candles, flowers. It wasn’t just about eating at the same table together; it was the daily ritual that cemented us to one another. We debriefed, caught-up, discussed the news, sometimes politics or religion. No topic was off-limits, and everyone had an opinion. It wasn’t always peaceful, especially when I hit my teenage years and realized that I already knew more than everyone else (wink); but it felt grounding. Even after wild nights out, I knew the rule: “If you can stay up for the party, you can get up for the breakfast.”

When PLB and I started dating in New York City, we worked for the same company and would regularly grab quick breakfasts on our way to the office, a pain au chocolat here, a bagel there. It was casual, and reflected our lives. We were eager to prove ourselves, and we stripped down our routines to prioritize our work.

Then Madeleine was born, and I became determined to replicate the family rituals with which I’d grown up. I wanted our meals with fish sets, silver cloches and candles. We managed dinners, occasionally even with candles, but weekday breakfasts were A TOTAL DISASTER.

Between PLB pulling all-nighters in grad school in LA, and me sprinting to meetings or rushing to catch the 6:16 AM train once we moved back to the east coast, the sit-down breakfast rarely and barely stood a chance. When we both started working from home during the pandemic, I thought my merry moment had arrived. I clung to the dream; seven-days-a-week family breakfasts around the table. It had to be wholesome. It had to be beautiful. It had to work. It didn’t.

Instead, it was chaos, and when the kids were back in school, one of us would hastily make breakfasts while the other scrambled to pack lunches. Someone would inevitably be late or have a meltdown. No one was at the table at the same time. My super-happy-family moment turned into a slow-motion car wreck, and we ended up stressed and running behind nearly every morning. The dream was dead (ha!), but I didn’t want to admit it.

Eventually, we surrendered.

These days, the kids trickle downstairs around 7am, sometimes dressed, sometimes wearing mermaid tails and pajamas. They plop down at the kitchen island while PLB makes breakfast for all of us and I prep the lunches. We eat together, in motion: chatting, finishing last minute homework, checking bags, sipping coffee. It’s far from the vision I had in my head. But we’ve embraced it. It works, and more importantly, it’s ours.

And it only took…seven years.

It’s a small example, but a powerful one. I’ve come to believe that it’s normal to carry behaviors from our childhood—histories, routines, expectations—into our adulthood. And often times, maybe without even realizing it, we copy/paste them. We find ourselves refusing to adapt our routines even when they’re making everyone miserable, riding the wrong horse and refusing to get off. I thought I was preserving a beautiful tradition. In reality, I was forcing a memory, and refusing flexibility or change.

Then by the grace of some greater power, some days we realize that the thing we’re fighting is the thing we should be embracing.

Here’s my invitation to you: What’s something in your life that’s clearly not working, something you’re still clinging to out of habit, nostalgia, or inherited values? What might shift if you allowed yourself to let go, adapt, or soften?