A friend recently pointed out that many of my blog posts eventually find their way back to my mother.

They’re right.

I sometimes wonder if readers get tired of hearing about her, but the truth is that I’m in a season of life where much of my learning happens through our relationship. My mother is aging. I am increasingly finding myself in the role of caregiver. The things I’m learning about vulnerability, risk, helping, dependence, dignity and relationships are not coming from books as much as they are coming from everyday life.

It’s just where I am.

Recently, I’ve been working my way through recordings of Rob Long’s teaching on Enactivism in the Social Psychology of Risk. I couldn’t join the online sessions live, but I’ve listened to them while driving, sitting with coffee, and during those moments when life finally becomes quiet enough to think. I also read all the homework from the students and that was invaluable.

What struck me was how many of the concepts Rob discussed were already sitting at my mom’s kitchen table.

My mother is gradually losing her hearing.

Like many people, my first response was to think of hearing loss as a technical problem. Typical of a safety person. Speak louder. Turn up the television. Check the hearing aids. Repeat what was said.

Fix the problem.

But living alongside hearing loss has taught me that it is not primarily a technical issue.

It is incredibly relational.

When someone begins losing their hearing, conversations change. Family gatherings change. The pace of interaction changes. Misunderstandings become more common. Frustration creeps in. Sometimes people stop participating because they are tired of trying to keep up.

What is lost is not simply sound.

What is at risk is connection.

And that realization has forced me to think differently about hearing and listening.

Hearing and Listening Are Not the Same Thing

One of the things I’ve come to appreciate is that hearing and listening are not the same thing.

Hearing is something the ear does.

Listening is something we do with another person.

For much of my life I assumed communication was mainly about transferring information. If someone didn’t hear what I said, I just needed to say it louder or repeat it more clearly.

But that isn’t really communication.

Communication isn’t data transfer. It isn’t one brain sending information to another brain.

Communication is embodied. It is relational. It happens through facial expressions, posture, eye contact, gestures, patience, shared experiences and mutual understanding.

I’ve noticed that while my mother’s hearing is fading, I am being taught how to listen.

When she asks me to repeat something for the third time, I have a choice. I can become impatient, or I can become present.

When she misunderstands what I’ve said, I can focus on the inconvenience to me, or I can focus on the courage it takes for her to keep engaging in a world that grows a little quieter every year.

Some days I do this better than others.

But I’m learning.

And perhaps this is where ENACTIVISM makes the most sense to me. The theory tells us that meaning isn’t something that sits inside our heads waiting to be transmitted. Meaning is something we create together. It emerges through relationships. Through interaction. Through embodiment.

I don’t think I truly understood that concept until I began walking alongside my mother through this season of life.

The Kitchen Table as Classroom

One of the images that comes to mind when I think about this learning is her kitchen table.

Nothing remarkable happens there.

There are cups of tea, repeated stories, conversations that drift, questions that get asked again, moments of confusion, moments of laughter and occasional frustrations.

It would be easy to overlook.

But increasingly I see that table as a classroom.

Not because anyone is teaching formal lessons, but because some things can only be learned through participation.

I can read about vulnerability.

My mother teaches me what it feels like.

I can read about dependence.

My mother teaches me what it means to maintain dignity while accepting help.

I can read about embodiment.

But embodiment becomes real when I sit across from someone I love and realize that understanding isn’t happening in either of our heads alone. It is happening between us.

That is where learning lives.

Why I Keep Writing About My Mother

Perhaps this is why I keep returning to stories about my mother.

Not because I lack other topics.

Not because I believe our story is unique.

But because this season of caregiving has become one of the richest sources of learning in my life.

The Social Psychology of Risk speaks often about relationships, vulnerability, helping, care and what it means to be human.

For me, those ideas are no longer abstract concepts.

They have faces.

They have voices.

They sit across from me at a kitchen table.

As I continue listening to Rob’s recordings, I am increasingly convinced that the most important learning rarely happens in a classroom. It happens in ordinary places. In hospitals, living rooms, waiting rooms, family conversations and moments of care.

It happens in the space between people.

And lately, some of the most important lessons of all have come from a woman who is slowly losing her hearing while teaching her son how to listen.

Thanks Mom.