Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about the importance of noticing. 

I heard on a podcast recently that the transition to parenthood is more than simply having a kid, more than paying bills or navigating the endless laundry cycle. Instead, it’s the natural shift from being noticed to being the noticer. 

As children, our parents see us. They follow up on homework and celebrate our birthdays with a fervor only a parent can hold. They sit on the sidelines of our games, and note our field trips on the fridge calendar. They remember our favorite candy and know that we can’t stand canned green beans. They notice us. 

As we age, we become the noticers. We track our kids’ successes and struggles. We remember to ask them about that one test they’d lost sleep over. We ask after their friends and notice the subtle shift in their expression when they’re doing something they truly enjoy.

This art of noticing, of marking others’ habits and passions, milestones and memories isn’t limited to a mother’s love. We can all become better at seeing each other, at saying a prayer of gratitude for a beautiful sunset or a warm interaction.

Inspired by a friend who faithfully checks in on me, even when I sometimes forget to respond, I decided this year to intentionally sharpen my noticing skills. And like the time I spent “Looking for Love” a few years ago, this practice soon became a worthwhile effort. 

I began in nature, hiking the various preserves and trails within driving distance of our home. I’ve always loved hiking, the way I spend just enough time alone in the woods to forget who I’m supposed to be, and remember who I am. 

And hiking, as it turns out, provides excellent fodder for noticing. Because when I notice a robin’s copper chest against the brown of a tree branch, or spy the first patch of bright moss on a spring day, or catch sight of a hawk along the highway, I’m honing in on that which someone else might miss. Each tiny bud or blade of grass becomes a chance to delight in the mundane, to temporarily abandon my inner world for the tangible one around me. 

Having mastered noticing when in a beautiful setting, I decided to try it out closer to home. I started taking early morning walks, leaving when it was dark, and returning after dawn. I not only began noticing slight changes in the weather, the crunch of leaves under my feet and the beauty of a sunrise, the moon still hanging on in the sky, but I also passed neighbors’ homes as their lights clicked on. I was reminded that while I peeled myself out of bed in the morning, others did too. I didn’t know what their days held, but I became aware of a hundred different ecosystems in the homes I passed, and could imagine others bolstering themselves for a new day, coffee or tea at hand. 

When noticing my surroundings felt commonplace, I moved on to the hardest step of the process: noticing people.

It was not nearly as easy as admiring a pretty flower, because, as I soon discovered, I am not the best at remembering the things I’ve noticed. My busy life or perhaps, my midlife brain, made the act of noticing, and following up on what I’ve observed, all the more difficult. So like a detective on a case, I took copious notes. I sat my friends down and asked them for the birth dates of everyone in their family. They nicely obliged, likely thinking I’d lost it. I added reminders for job interviews, medical test results, and other goings on. I noted death anniversaries too—knowing that a week or so before my husband realizes it’s the anniversary of his dad’s passing, there will be a shift in his countenance, a quiet turning inward, the body remembering before the mind makes a conscious connection.

I started keeping a prayer list on my phone, too. I decided that instead of simply saying I would pray for someone or something, only to promptly forget, I would write down every single prayer that came to mind. I know people who have been doing this for years, but I’m slow on the uptake. A funny thing happened when I started doing this—not only would I actually pause to pray for the people and things on my list, but those prayers also began popping into my head throughout each day. 

I would remember to ask a coworker about their mother-in-law’s health. I remembered to ask Gray about the friend he’d mentioned, days after the fact. And others’ significant occasions would more frequently rise to the forefront of my mind. 

Noticing, and remembering what I’d noticed, became easier, nearly secondhand. 

I am still a work in progress. There are so many, many things I forget to remember. Like nearly every time my brother-in-law comes to stay with us. No matter how many calendar alerts and gentle reminders Mike gives me, I often come home to Thomas coloring in my basement and remember why I had earlier thought it imperative to wash the guest room sheets.

When I make a conscious effort to notice, and write down those noticings, it’s a promise to my future self to care for the people in my life. When I write down and review my prayer list, it’s an acknowledgement that everyone has something deeper going on. I hope that by observing others’ lives, I can somehow buoy their spirits from afar, can whisper to them, “I see you.”

Because that’s the true power of being a noticer, I’ve found. It’s not the pursuit of the perfect calendar or task-list. It’s not an attempt to be the perfect friend who never forgets a special date. Rather, it’s the intentional choice to set down my own triumphs and mini-tragedies, and divert that energy to witnessing someone else for a change.  

Which is how this act of noticing started benefiting me too, perhaps more than my subtle remembering impacts others. In the simplest of terms, noticing forced my attention to something outside of myself. 

My prayer list became a welcomed distraction from my own worries. Others’ birthdays or anniversaries became a reminder to set aside my own calendar to note the important entries on theirs. 

I became better at encouragement, moving past minor jealousies to celebrate others’ accomplishments. My empathy has been strengthened too, as I stretch the bounds of my own experience to feel what makes others hurt. 

What might our world look like, if we all became noticers? I wonder. How might we treat the earth if we paused to marvel in nature’s quiet presence? How might our days differ if we truly saw our mail carriers, thanked random door holders, and looked after the elderly woman living alone down the street? What if we reached out before we knew someone was hurting? Or remembered to check in once we found out?

I’m no poster child for remembering—I’m still a novice noticer, after all—but I appreciate the interconnectedness that noticing brings to my life. As I notice more each day, I’m happy to trade the fictional narrative of my own anxieties for a more material storyline, one in which I’m no longer the main character. I’m grateful too, for the chance to notice the beauty in others, the hungry and hurting, the joyful and bright, and to say, “I see you.”