I stopped to visit Fred Rogers while I was in Pittsburgh.
There he was, overlooking the three rivers. I took a little time to look out over the water myself. Somewhere in that pause, a simple stop became something deeper.
I started thinking about what it means to be a neighbor.
When we’re children, that word seems easy. A neighbor is someone who lives nearby. Someone you wave to, someone whose name you know. As we get older, we learn that proximity doesn’t always create connection. We can live on the same street for years and barely speak. We can be surrounded by people and still feel alone.
Since Tabby passed, I’ve been learning just how much a small act of kindness can matter.
A message. Someone remembering her name. Someone checking on the kids. Someone giving me room to talk about her without trying to fix what cannot be fixed.
Those things stay with me. Sometimes they help carry a day that feels heavier than I know how to explain.
Standing there with Mister Rogers, I thought about the kind of attention he encouraged us to give one another. Taking someone seriously. Listening long enough to hear what they’re trying to say. Recognizing that every person brings something with them that we may never see.
I wonder how often we forget that.
We see a frustrated parent, but we don’t know what happened before they walked into the room. We see someone falling behind, but we don’t know how much effort it took for them to show up at all. We hear a sharp response and decide we understand the whole person.
I know I’ve done it, too.
Grief has made me more aware of how much can be happening beneath the surface. I can have an ordinary conversation, do the errands, make the plans, and still be carrying a moment from twenty years ago—or wishing I could tell Tabby about something that happened five minutes earlier.
The world keeps moving. Learning how to move with it takes time.
Looking out over those rivers, I also thought about the work I’m trying to continue. Helping parents speak up. Encouraging people to participate. Reminding families that their children matter and that their voices deserve to be heard.
Some days, I question how much of it reaches people. I can write a post or make a call, but I don’t always get to see what happens afterward. Tabby helped parents directly, person to person. I watched her make those connections. I miss her, and I miss having her beside me in this work.
Maybe that’s part of what made this stop meaningful.
It reminded me to pay attention to the person in front of me. Before someone feels ready to speak up, they may need to feel that someone will listen. Before they join a community, they may need to know there is room for them in it.
That’s something each of us can help create.
We can learn a name. Ask a question and wait for the answer. Make the invitation. Check on someone again after the first wave of support has faded. Give a child our attention when they have something to tell us.
These are things I want to keep practicing, even on the days when I’m struggling myself.
I didn’t leave that quiet moment in Pittsburgh with everything figured out. I’m still grieving. I’m still trying to find my footing as a father, as an advocate, and as a person learning to live with an absence I never wanted.
But I’m glad I stopped.
For a little while, I let myself look out over the water and think about the people who have helped our family keep going. I thought about Tabby and the care she gave so freely. And I thought about how I might carry some of that care into whatever comes next.
I can start with the next person I meet.