A Love Letter to the Packed Lunch

As the school year winds down, I keep hearing a few common things from caregivers of school aged kids:

“I’m so excited to have them home.”

“I can’t wait for the slower mornings and change in routine.”

And maybe most passionately of all:

“I am SO excited to not make another lunch.”

I get it.

I’m not going to pretend there haven’t been mornings where I stared into the fridge with absolutely no inspiration left, or that pouring your heart and soul into a lunch only to have it returned barely touched does not sting a little.

There have been empty containers proudly handed back to me, only to hear:
“Oh, I didn’t actually eat it. It fell on the floor.”
Or:
“I traded it.”

There is something deeply humbling about trying to create a nutritious, somewhat balanced, somehow different lunch five days a week for a small person who rightfully has preferences that change almost daily.

And yet, I think I am actually going to miss making lunches.

Because somewhere along the way, they became more than food.

They became one of the clearest examples in my life of showing up consistently for something that may never offer immediate or measurable results.

Every weekday morning, I begin again.

Prepare something nourishing.
Make it sturdy enough to survive being tossed around in a backpack.
Accept that it will sit at room temperature for hours before being opened.
Add a hand drawn note.
Hope for a few bites.
Hope my child feels cared for when they open it.

Then do it all again the next day.

Lunch making has quietly become my most dedicated sales practice.

Not sales in the performative sense.
Not convincing.
Not pushing.

But the practice of continuing to offer care, creativity, effort, and intention without guaranteed feedback, recognition, or success.

The practice of believing something matters even when the evidence feels inconsistent.

Some days the lunch comes home untouched.
Some days only the cookie is gone.
Some days everything is eaten and I feel irrationally victorious.

But I keep going.

And honestly, that has taught me more than I expected about other areas of life.

About coaching.
About relationships.
About creative work.
About building anything meaningful over time.

So much of life is continuing to prepare something with care before you know how it will be received.

Writing the post.
Making the offer.
Starting the conversation.
Showing up to the practice.
Sending the email.
Trying again after silence.
Trusting that consistency matters even when outcomes vary.

Most meaningful things are built exactly this way.

Not through certainty, but through repetition, care, adjustment, and perhaps a dash of hope.

Lunches have helped me learn that.

And while I am absolutely ready for summer, slower mornings, and a break from cutting fruit into tiny compartments, I think a part of me will miss this daily act of trying.

Even when it comes home squished at the bottom of a backpack.