What a Quiet Morning in Bed Taught Me About the Wealth I Almost Missed

Written By: Brad Pedersen

A couple of years ago, I was laying in bed when Kelly rolled over and put her arm around me in a loving embrace.

My first instinct, and I am embarrassed to admit this, was mild annoyance. She was holding me back from getting my day going.

But I remember now that as I lay there, something started to shift.

Let me back up.

I am an early riser with a specific morning routine, and that day was no different. As usual, I had woken up early with my mind already spinning through everything I needed to get done. There is a code built deep inside me that says I need to earn the right to slow down. That stillness without first producing something is laziness, and I need to pay a certain penance before I can truly enjoy anything.

However as I lay there with these frenetic thoughts running through my mind, I started to notice that this quiet, unremarkable, ordinary moment was actually the only moment that mattered. Here I was, manufacturing anxiety about all the things I should be doing, with my most important person right beside me, showing affection.

Then a thought moved through me that I was not expecting.

There will come a time when I will be laying here being held by her for the last time. It is not a matter of if….it is when; and neither of us get to know the date.

I held her a little tighter. I stopped thinking about my list and I just breathed in the moment.

The Trap I Keep Falling Into

After decades of building businesses, raising a family, and chasing what was next, I’ve come to recognize something about myself: I live oriented toward the future. I’ve spent so much energy constructing tomorrow that I’ve often missed fully inhabiting today.

The irony is hard to ignore, as the life I’m living now was once the dream. The family, the business, the impact in my community were all things I once hoped for. Yet even after seeing those dreams materialize, I’ve often woken up with the quiet sense that something more is required before I can feel complete. In many ways, my anxious attachment to tomorrow has stolen the peace available in the present.

My coach often says a skilled hunter knows how to hunt, but a master hunter knows how he is hunted. I know how I’m hunted. I’m pulled forward by the promise of what’s next, and in that pull, it’s easy to overlook what’s right in front of me.

For years, that tension became fuel. The voice that said I wasn’t doing enough, that I should be further ahead, pushed me to work harder and achieve more. And it produced results I’m deeply grateful for. But I’ve come to see that the fuel that powered one season of my life is not necessarily the fuel meant to carry me into the next.

The Poem Written For Me

I haven’t always loved to read, but over time I’ve grown to love it. What once felt like effort has become something I value deeply as part of my daily ritual. Poetry, though, has never come easily to me. With my natural proclivity towards logic and structure, I’ve often struggled with its abstract nature.

Recently, however, I came across a poem that forced me to stop and reflect. It reads as follows:

Do not ask your children to strive for extraordinary lives.

Such striving may be admirable, but it is the way of foolishness.

Help them instead to find the wonder and the marvel of an ordinary life.

Show them the joy of tasting tomatoes, apples, and pears.

Show them how to cry when pets and people die.

Show them the infinite pleasure in the touch of a hand.

And make the ordinary come alive for them.

The extraordinary will take care of itself.

Reading those words felt like therapy for my soul. Make the ordinary come alive and the extraordinary will take care of itself. It took me back to my childhood, when delight came easily and the world felt full of possibility. Curiosity was natural and wonder required no effort.

As I reflected I could sense that somewhere along the way, I had drifted from that place of childlike wonder.  I became more predictable, certain, more driven and less open.

The poem reminded me of the hidden beauty to be discovered in ordinary moments. The simple pleasure in the touch of a hand - exactly the gift that my wife had offered me that early morning.  The truth is, I nearly missed it because I was busy planning my next move.

How often do we do the same? Telling ourselves we’ll be content when the next deal closes, when the number is hit or some day in the future when life finally slows down.

But life doesn’t slow down. And the ordinary moments keep passing us by while we wait for permission to enjoy them.

What Riding Has Taught Me

I love mountain biking, and one thing the trails have taught me is that there’s a right kind of grip required. You need enough pressure on the bars to stay steady and enough force on the pedals to keep momentum. But if you grip too tightly or pedal in panic, you will lose flow.

The best rides happen when you hold the bars firmly but not fearfully. When you trust your line, staying loose through the turns, letting the bike move beneath you.

Life feels similar. There’s effort required, direction matters, but if we stay locked up like we’re bracing for a crash, we miss the rhythm of the ride. The goal isn’t to white-knuckle every descent, it’s to stay engaged, trust your preparation, and actually enjoy the ride as the trail is revealed in front of you.

When we look back at where we started, many of us have already achieved more than we once thought possible. So why are so many of us still white-knuckling the handlebars like beginners on their first ride?

After a certain point, the relentless drive is hurting and not helping our performance the way we tell ourselves it is.

With that in mind, here’s a thought worth sitting with: this adventure called life will be over sooner than we think. We all know that instinctually, even if we rarely allow ourselves to truly feel it.

There will be a last time you tuck your kids into bed. A last board meeting where your voice carries weight. A last spontaneous dinner with friends. And a last glass of wine sitting across from your spouse enjoying each other's company.

The ordinary moments we rush past are not endless; one day, they will quietly become memories.  We can either look back on a great run of achievements and remember how much we rushed through them, or we can actually try to be there for them while they are happening.

That does not mean that I am against having ambition. Striving and achievement are natural parts of our growth. We are wired to build, to stretch, and to pursue what is possible.

But I’ve come to believe that the truest measure of a wealthy life is simpler: that we love deeply and are deeply loved by the people who matter most. That kind of wealth cannot be purchased. It must be invested in daily, protected intentionally, and nurtured over time.

A Radical Proposition

So here’s what I want to suggest.

What if we assumed that most of what we’re worried about will actually work out? What if we walked into each day with quiet confidence that we’ll handle whatever comes, just as we always have?

What if, instead of spending today rehearsing tomorrow’s problems, we invested our energy in being fully present for what’s in front of us?

Presence for today, doesn’t mean abandoning tomorrow's ambition. It simply means sourcing our ambition differently. Not from a need to prove that we’re enough, but from the awareness that we already are. It means remembering that the most fulfilling returns in life rarely show up on a balance sheet.

In a culture obsessed with the extraordinary, there is quiet power in celebrating the ordinary. The workout we almost skipped. The unhurried conversation with our kids. The early morning when someone we love reaches over and chooses to hold us.

All of it matters.

Make the ordinary come alive….and the extraordinary will take care of itself.

So this week ask yourself:

What ordinary moment did I rush past today that deserved my full attention?

Where am I still gripping the handlebars too tightly when I should be in the flow of the ride?

What would change if I simply chose to believe that things will go well; just like they always have?

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