silent treasures

The most essential parts of a life - the quiet ones - are often the hardest to name and the easiest to overlook, to underestimate.

Like an evening out, finally booked into the gap of busy schedules—nothing fancy, just burgers, fries, and time to connect.

I had dinner with two old friends the other night (and by old, I mean we’ve known each other for over 40 years - which feels impressive, until you do the math).

Somewhere between ordering and dessert, we started to play a game.

Provocative questions. Not planned—just something that unfolded.

If you could eat only one food for the rest of your life?

Bread. Steak. Avocados. (We are, it turns out, entirely predictable.)

If you could acquire one talent?

We all said the same thing - we wished we could sing. Which, if you think about it, isn’t about music. It’s about the hope that someone is actually listening.

And then the question that changed the room—at least for me:

What are the talents you have that no one recognizes?

It sounds simple, but it’s not.

We didn’t really answer, though we tried to answer for each other, unsuccessfully.

The question stayed with me, though. Because suddenly, we weren’t reaching for something impressive or amusing or even admirable.

We were reaching for something softer. Something true.

Later, when I tried to answer it myself, I knew it wouldn’t be about leadership or time management or writing, or any of the things I’ve spent decades intentionally becoming.

Instead, what surfaced were the skills that don’t announce themselves - the ones that rarely get named.

I can sense when something is off before a word is spoken.

I can stay steady through a storm—waiting for the sun to come out—or, when I can’t, I know where to go to find steadiness.

I can open the refrigerator, see nothing, close it, open it again, and somehow find dinner the second time. Now that is talent.

I can write a note, watch TV, and rub my dog’s ears with my foot all at once.

I can decipher a text that says, “On my way,” and understand it really means somewhere between five minutes and half an hour.

I know when to push—and when to let something go.

I know which battles are worth having and which will cost more than they’re worth - and I act accordingly…most of the time.

I anticipate needs—tissues tucked into every purse, every pocket, always ready for the call of duty.

I know what time to go to the Avenue to find a parking spot, when to avoid it altogether, and whether to take I-95, the Post Road, or an alternate route on a Friday afternoon in the middle of the summer.

I have learned how to hold joy and worry in the same hand - sometimes loosely, sometimes firmly.

I have learned how to stay quiet when every part of me wants to ask one more question.

I can tell who is at the door by the sound of the steps and the way the dogs react.

I can keep a conversation going with someone I barely know while also planning my day in my head (I hate to admit this).

I can eat a whole bag of jellybeans and convincingly argue—and believe—that the ones made with real juice are practically a fruit.

I can cry publicly and laugh out loud—even snort—at the most immature jokes and not care how I might be perceived.

I can own up to my mistakes (sometimes too many to count).

And I can love fiercely, even when it is hard.

I have spent years acquiring skills no one names. Skills that earn no applause. Skills that don’t join data analysis and marketing on a résumé.

But I would argue they are the true essence of a life (well, maybe not the jellybeans).

No one stops you at this age and says, “Wow! Look at what you’ve learned to do!”

And yet, there it is. A quiet expertise. Hard-earned. Unspoken. Constant.

Not remarkable in the traditional sense. Not measurable. Not even noticed, if you’re doing them well.

But essential.

Because these are the skills that keep a life running—the ones that steady, support, anticipate, and carry.

Back at the restaurant, we moved on to other questions - some ridiculous, some revealing, some better left at the table.

But it’s that third one that stayed with me.

Sure, our answers might differ. But I’m beginning to think it was never about promotions or diplomas or achievements, as nice as those are.

It was always about something quieter—the quiet, accumulated knowing of how to show up, how to carry what matters, and how to love people right in the middle of it all.