TL;DR: People ask me how my mom is doing. Last week, in Alaska, from overseas, around the neighborhood, at a family reunion in the middle of the San Francisco Bay. I know every one of them means it. The question is a good one; but, it is the question I cannot answer well. It asks me to speak for someone whose experience is not mine to narrate.

On Being Asked

TSN 26.29 August 23, 2026

Hiya

My coin has three words on it. Notice. Engage. Return…

Period. Period. Three dots…

Two of those words are free; dare I say easy. In the moment, I can pay attention. Left to my training, I know how to ask questions that get to the second one.

This week, I found out what the third one costs.

Monday, I flew to Anchorage and read a friend's book about curiosity. [The Most Interested Person, by Rajesh Setty.] His thesis? Ask more questions… and be more interested.

I’ve found the difference is made later; when we come back…still interested.

A month ago, a Lt Col gave a briefing that impressed me beyond words. Candor and professionalism. What right looks like. I did not tell her at the time. On Wednesday, returning to Alaska for a quick TDY, I hand-delivered her a card and included my coin. I needed to let her know how I admire and respect her leadership.

Wednesday, coffee with supervisors at a fav coffee shop in Anchorage. A few were sharing that as “introverts,” it is sometimes hard to lead… when it’s challenging to be around people. My instinct … to answer fast. My mouth starts talking before my brain puts it all together. There, in front of the table, I opened my notebook and wrote the word. I read it back as a question, “What does ‘introversion’ mean to you?”

During the convo, I opened the dictionary on my phone.

We spent the next twenty minutes on that one word. I wanted the table to explore the meaning underneath it.

Thursday, I arrived at my mom's house at 0700 and stayed until 1500 the next afternoon. Someone must be inside the four walls with her at all times. No quick errand. No walk. No uninterruptible timeout.

Under thirty hours, and then I got in the car. In the rear-view mirror, I saw the home my sister manages; the sanctuary she maintains.

Felice does not get in the car. What she has made in that house is not a sickroom. It is a place to rebuild.

Saturday was our Angel Island day (in the middle of the San Francisco Bay.) I’m thinkin’ it’s been ‘bout 45 summers that THAT date has been on the calendar. The “Womack Family (and friends) Reunion.” Always scheduled sometime during the summer… I have amazing memories of this being my grandmother's favorite thing… all of us in one place, and my dad and his siblings have kept it going.

This was the second one without my uncle. I miss my uncle Matt, and still call on the lessons he taught me when I think of the years I worked for him as a journeyman carpenter!

On the island, and later that night as we gathered at my Dad and Gail’s house, I socialized, and I told a couple of stories. I also knew what Saturday was for me; a day I could escape to.

People kept asking how my mom is doing. When I was in Alaska, on the ferry to the island, via text, on the phone. I know they ask because it is the question we grew up learning to ask; everyone means it.

Problem is, I honestly don’t know. I mean, when I’m the primary caregiver (a night or two at a time, once or twice a month) it feels complicated. So, if you were to ask, here’s how I’d respond…

“My mom is recovering…and rebuilding in the home that Felice is manifesting. Now, if you ask me how I am? Well…”

And, then I share.

Openly, honestly, completely. That being said, I will watch for signs. I’ll watch for blinking eyes; smiling lips; nods of the noggin; shrugs of the shoulder.

I am emotional. All six of them. #Happy, #sad, #afraid, #angry, #surprised, #disgusted. No order, no schedule, sometimes inside the same hour.

This week, I got to practice returning to the people I care about. What I know now is that I get to step toward getting – and letting – people return to me.

Much love from Pasadena,

JW