For as long as I can remember, I’ve looked forward.

“Don’t wish your life away,” my mom advised a younger me every time I shared that I “couldn’t wait” to be some particular far-off age. Easy for her to say, I would think to myself. She’s already experienced all the great things that I still have to wait for.

My restless longings for what was to come evolved into a general sense of urgency in all things. It manifested in a million little ways. A low-level, persistent anxiety that eventually plagued me nearly every waking and sleeping moment—a sensation I thought was just part of being human–was eventually born of my inability to focus on any task or experience at hand without being pelted with thoughts of what I wanted or needed to do next.

This is, when I think about it, a pretty amazing phenomenon to blindly live with for half a century. And when I finally did have my epiphany, it wasn’t in a church, in a therapist’s office, or after a near-death experience.

I was simply in my front yard with the dog, impatiently waiting as I do several times every day for her to do her business and be quickly lured back into the house with the promise of a treat. But as is so often the case, she had other plans. Plans that included following a scent, rolling in damp grass, and exploring a fresh hole that some nocturnal creature had burrowed as we slept.

Just as I prepared to launch into my litany of pleas for her to wrap things up, I caught a glimpse of dew drops clinging to the red leaves of our Japanese maple. Near that, an elaborate spider web bridged the tree with the brick under our office window sill. I stopped and took in other natural beauty around me.

How many times, I wondered, had I stood in this spot? Too many to count. But never, never without a to-do list playing like a loop in my head, tugging at my sleeve, telling me to hurry on to the next thing so I could check it off the list.

I made a decision not just to let the dog finish her adventure, but to be a part of it. It only took an extra five minutes or so to satisfy her curiosity and for me to enjoy the many gifts an early spring morning has to offer. Newborn birds chirping, crocuses pushing through the soil, rabbits darting for cover, friendly neighbors retrieving newspapers or starting their work day.

This may seem more like a small moment than a dramatic revelation. But it was a small moment that helped me see and name something that was a little broken in me, which is leading to more small moments that are healing that brokenness.

I’m not looking for a complete recovery from my forward thinking. In moderation, it serves me well, and it’s part of what make me uniquely me. It’s good, though, to have some clarity and to be able to make choices that bring more balance to my life. I’m learning that the cost of occasionally taking time to live in the moment is nominal. And the rewards are immeasurable.