A few weeks ago, my husband, my daughter, and I decided we were going to walk the trail to the playground.
It’s about a mile walk before you reach the playground itself, and my daughter was excited the entire way there.
Well… sort of.
Because to a three-year-old, the journey is the destination.
Every flower mattered.
Every pinecone was fascinating.
Every crack in the sidewalk deserved investigation.
And honestly?
I loved watching her explore the world that way.
The wonder.
The curiosity.
The joy.
But every few minutes, I’d gently remind her:
“Baby, if we stop at everything, we’re not going to make it to the playground.”
And she’d look at me like: Lady… I am at the park.
Because in her mind, she already was.
And after a while, I started questioning myself.
Nikki, why are you pushing her?
Why not just let her enjoy the moment?
Why not stop rushing?
Why not let today simply be whatever it becomes?
So I made a choice.
I let her lead.
I followed her pace, her wonder, her world.
And we never made it to the playground.
And the interesting thing is…
my daughter was perfectly happy.
She didn’t feel like she missed anything.
To her, the flowers were enough. The walk was enough. The moment was enough.
Until we turned around.
And she realized the playground wasn’t part of the story anymore.
That’s when I had to help her understand.
Not with disappointment.
Not with I told you so.
Just with truth and the space to feel it.
Today we chose the journey.
And the playground will be waiting when we’re ready.
And honestly?
That moment sat with me for a long time.
Because I wanted to let her have everything.
The flowers. The pinecones. The cracks in the sidewalk.
I wanted to be the kind of mother who never rushes her daughter past wonder.
But I also felt something else sitting heavy underneath that.
The quiet fear of what happens when no one ever tells her to keep going.
That’s the tension of loving someone well.
You want to protect them from disappointment.
And you have to choose their growth anyway.
Not with harshness.
Not with control.
But with truth that has your love wrapped all the way around it.
That’s what I couldn’t let go of on the walk home.
Because that same tension lives in me as a leader.
The pull between being comfortable to be around and being genuinely useful.
And I’ve had to learn, over and over, that the most loving thing I can do for someone is not to protect them from the lesson.
It’s to be present when the lesson comes.
Because while I absolutely want my daughter to enjoy the journey…
I also need her to understand that if you lose focus completely, you may never arrive where you intended to go.
And that applies to all of us.
Personally. Professionally. Spiritually.
There are distractions everywhere.
Beautiful ones. Interesting ones. Comfortable ones.
And not all distractions are bad.
That’s what makes them dangerous.
Some distractions feel good enough that you forget you were headed somewhere greater.
And the truth is, I feel that same responsibility with the people I care about in my life too.
I need to be honest with you.
I need to tell you the truth even when it’s uncomfortable.
I need to care more about your growth than your temporary approval of me.
That doesn’t mean being cruel.
It means being kind instead of just being nice.
Because nice avoids discomfort.
Kindness tells the truth with love attached to it.
And there is a difference.
A big one.
As a leader, I’ve learned that people don’t always appreciate transparency in the moment.
As a mother, I’m learning children don’t always appreciate redirection in the moment either.
But leadership is not about being liked every second.
It’s about helping people become who they are capable of becoming.
And sometimes that means lovingly reminding them:
“Yes, the flowers are beautiful…
but don’t forget where you said you wanted to go.”
She’ll probably forget that walk.
But I won’t.
Because she reminded me what it looks like to live fully in a moment.
And I loved her enough to point her toward her purpose.
The next time we walked that trail?
She still noticed the flowers.
But she kept walking.
That’s what kindness looks like when it has purpose behind it.
That’s part of my Herformation.
And maybe… yours too.