Losing Patience at the Happiest Place on the Planet

It was a long, buzzing day at Disneyland, the kind where rides, lines, and crowds stretch the limits of anyone’s endurance. I was there with a group of foster children participating in a sibling reunification event.  

I was assigned to a young foster child, a boy with sharp at the edges and still figuring out how to belong in the world. After one especially questionable decision, I decided to try something different.  I exaggeratedly patted my pocket, as if searching for something important. I dug around deeper and deeper, my expression growing serious. “I have something for you,” I said, drawing out the moment and making him curious about what I could possibly be hiding.

Finally, I pulled my hand out, did my best attempt to pick at imaginary lint, but then landed it in front of him open, empty.
“This, minus the lint,” I said, “is all the patience I have left. I am giving it to you.”

He looked at my hand with a mix of confusion and disbelief. Then, with a sly grin, he plucked the invisible patience from my palm. Without hesitation, he threw it on the ground, stomped on it, and ground it deep into the dirt with the heel of his shoe.

I did not flinch. “That patience was important to me and, if you aren't going to use it I would like it back” I told him calmly. “You need to pick it back up, even the pieces stuck to your shoe.”

He gave me a look of pure bewilderment, the kind that said this woman is completely crazy.  But after seeing my "I am waiting" face, he crouched down and carefully picked up the invisible patience, even pretending to dig a few stubborn bits out of his sneaker tread. When he stood, he held it out to me, mangled and squished in his hand.

I smiled and said softly, “Just hold it for a few minutes. It will start to feel better. Patience just needs calm to heal, to regrow and regroup.”

For the first time that day, he was still. He cupped the invisible patience gently, then began to pet it with one finger. In a normal, quiet voice, a voice that carried more tenderness than defiance, he whispered to it, “You are getting better. I think you are okay now.”  He then looked at me and smile.  I could not help but smile back.

Something changed after that. He stayed close to me for the rest of the day. Maybe it was because of the invisible patience we were nursing back to health, or maybe it was the fact that I was blasting the KPOP Demon Hunter soundtrack, turning our walk through the park into an epic adventure. To me, it felt like we were not just walking through Disneyland, we were on a quest, protecting something fragile and good.

On the train, he lifted patience up to see the view. In quieter moments, he stroked it and whispered to it again. Somewhere between the rides and the laughter, the invisible patience became something real, a reminder that calm, kindness, and connection can grow even in the most unexpected places.

When the day began to wind down and the buses pulled up before dark, he turned to me and held out his hand.
“Do you want your patience back?” he said.

I shook my head. “No. I think you might need it this week. Be kind to it.”

He nodded solemnly, tucked the invisible patience into his pocket, and held out his fist. I met it with mine.

“I think you are amazing and smart,” I told him. “And I hope you always choose to be kind. Take care of patience.”

He did not say much, but the way he walked away, patience safe in his pocket, said enough.

Five Lessons I Learned from That Moment

1. Patience can be shared, even when it feels invisible.
Sometimes the best gift we can offer is not advice or correction, but a moment of calm presence that invites someone else to join us there.

2. Playfulness can open doors where lectures cannot.
That day, imagination created a bridge between us. The silliness made space for sincerity.

3. Healing often starts in quiet.
When he held that patience still, the calm that followed was not pretend. It was real. Sometimes we all just need a minute to hold still and let things regroup.

4. Connection changes behavior more than correction does.
Once he felt seen and safe, he wanted to stay close. Relationship, not rules, is what shifts hearts.

5. The things we teach often become the things we need.
As I asked him to care for patience, I realized I was reminding myself to do the same, to be gentle, to breathe, and to carry patience forward, even when it feels worn and invisible.

Reflection

So many things I leave unwritten in this post, but that day reminded me that patience is not a thing we simply have; it is something we practice, protect, and sometimes lend to others. In leadership, in parenting, in mentoring, or in life, patience is an act of generosity that allows space for growth and grace. The boy may have walked away with invisible patience in his pocket, but I walked away with something too ... a deeper understanding that the normalest, most creative moments of connection can plant seeds that grow long after the day is done.

Happy Thursday all.  Be kind to one another.

-srt