It started innocent enough…just me and Hailey in the kitchen, making banana pudding the right way. You know, the old-fashioned way, with real pudding, layers of vanilla wafers, and a ceramic dish that’s survived more holidays than my patience.

Well, almost survived.

Because somewhere between teaching her how to layer the pudding just right and reaching for the dish, the handle decided it had lived a full life and took my finger with it.

A clean slice. Ceramic dish: 1. Me: 0.

I probably needed stitches. But I’m uninsured and stubborn, which feels like a personality type at this point, so I resorted to pressure, Rapid Seal, and a generous layer of liquid bandage. Basically, DIY surgery and prayer.

It worked. Kind of. My finger is still attached, though it now has a throbbing pulse that feels like it’s keeping its own beat to the chaos soundtrack of my life.

Funny thing is, it’s my non-dominant hand, you know the one I barely think about. Until suddenly, I couldn’t open jars, cut fruit, or even brush my hair without wincing. I didn’t realize how much I relied on that one finger until it was out of commission.

And somewhere between the sting of antiseptic and the sound of Hailey laughing at me holding my hand in the air like a wounded raccoon, it hit me:

We do this in life too.

We patch ourselves up with metaphorical liquid bandage and keep going, pretending we’re fine, even when we probably need stitches. We tell ourselves, “it’s just a little cut,” while we’re quietly bleeding all over the place.

Sometimes the smallest wounds, physical or otherwise, slow us down enough to notice how much we take for granted. The ease, the rhythm, the parts of life we barely acknowledge until they hurt.

So today’s truth?

Sometimes life hands you banana pudding… and sometimes it hands you a broken dish and a lesson in humility.

Either way, keep a bottle of liquid bandage handy, for your fingers and your heart.