My Take Tuesday: The Text We Mean to Send

My dear friend Amanda and I went to veterinary school together.

She is younger than I am—and I just turned forty-six.

At this age, we are supposed to have plenty of time. Time to finish the work in front of us. Time to reconnect with old friends. Time to say the things we have thought about saying but somehow never quite get around to.

Then, in a single instant, time changed for Amanda.

She suffered a devastating stroke. Surgeons had to operate urgently to remove a clot from her neck and brain. Now, the people who love her are waiting—hoping for healing, watching for signs of recovery, and wondering what the future may hold.

Will she regain the function she has lost?

Will there be lasting cognitive impairment?

What will her life look like tomorrow, next month, or a year from now?

There are no clear answers yet. Only questions, prayers, and the terrible uncertainty that follows when life changes without warning.

As I have thought about Amanda, other questions have troubled me.

Did I reach out often enough?

Was I a good friend?

Does she know how much I care about her?

We spend so much of our lives believing there will be another opportunity. Another lunch. Another conference. Another phone call. Another Christmas card. Another moment when the schedule is less crowded and life finally slows down enough for us to reconnect.

We mean to send the text.

We intend to make the call.

We think about someone we love and tell ourselves, “I need to reach out.”

Then a patient needs us. A meeting begins. An airplane boards. The chores pile up. The day ends. Weeks become months, and months quietly become years.

We assume there will always be more time.

Until there isn’t.

Amanda’s stroke has forced me to reconsider what truly matters.

Positions mean nothing.

Wealth means nothing.

Titles mean nothing.

They may provide opportunities to serve, and they may allow us to accomplish good things. But they cannot hold our hand beside a hospital bed. They cannot speak the words we left unsaid. They cannot replace the time we failed to give someone we loved.

Someday, every title we worked so hard to earn will belong to someone else. Every position will be filled by another name. The possessions we gathered will be divided, sold, or forgotten.

What will remain is how we made people feel.

Did they know they mattered?

Did they feel seen?

Did they know that their presence brought meaning to our lives?

Did we tell them?

Somewhere beyond the noise and chaos of daily life, this truth eventually becomes apparent to all of us: relationships are what matter. Love is what matters. The kindness we offer, the burdens we help carry, and the meaning we give to the lives of others are the only accomplishments that truly endure.

Amanda is not simply a classmate from veterinary school. She is part of my story. She walked beside me during years that shaped who I would become. We shared the exhausting days, the difficult examinations, the uncertainty, the laughter, and the dream of becoming veterinarians.

Those years created a bond that distance and busy schedules could never completely erase.

But bonds should not merely be remembered. They should be tended.

Friendship is not only something we feel. It is something we must express.

I hope Amanda knows that I care about her. I hope she knows that her life has mattered to mine. I hope she knows that I am grateful our paths crossed and that I have always been proud to call her my friend.

But hope is a poor substitute for having said it clearly.

Perhaps there is someone in your life you have been meaning to contact. Maybe it is a classmate, a mentor, a sibling, a former colleague, or a friend whose name still brings a smile when it appears on your phone.

Reach out.

Do not wait for a better time to send the text. Make the call. Tell them they matter to you. Tell them what you admire about them. Tell them how much value they have added to your life.

Do it awkwardly if necessary.

Do it imperfectly.

But do it now.

Life can change between one heartbeat and the next. In a single instant, the chance to say what should have been said may be altered…. or taken away entirely.

Today, I am praying for Amanda. I am praying for healing, restored function, clarity, strength, and the steady hands of those caring for her. 

And I am holding tightly to the hope that there will still be time to tell her everything I should have said before.

Amanda, you matter to me.

Your friendship matters.

Your life has added meaning to mine.

And I am so grateful you are part of my story.

And that is My Take. 

N. Isaac Bott, DVM