The other day at the grocery store, as we passed the flower section, I noticed my eldest daughter’s eyes light up. On a whim, I told her she could pick out a bouquet for us to bring home. She took her time, looking over all the vibrant, showy blooms—the roses, the lilies, the bright bursts of color that usually take center stage. And then, with a quiet confidence, she picked up a bundle of three dollar baby’s breath.

At first, I almost said something. Baby’s breath is usually a filler flower, an accent to something grander. I would have chosen something bold, something that demanded attention, maybe the spring tullips. But she saw something different. She saw beauty. So I let it go.

When we got home and arranged them in a vase, I had to admit—they were stunning. Soft, airy, and delicate, they brought an effortless grace to the room. What I had dismissed as a supporting role, my daughter had chosen as the main event. And as the days passed, those tiny blooms remained resilient, still standing strong two weeks later.

It struck me then how much life is like that. So often, we chase after the big moments—the celebrations, the achievements, the picture-perfect milestones. But real life is lived in the filler. In the bedtime stories, the endless rounds of cooking and cleaning, the car rides, the small routines that string our days together. The beauty isn’t just in the highlights; it’s in the quiet, consistent presence of the things we often overlook.

It’s easy to get caught up in thinking that life is about the grand gestures. The vacations, the accomplishments, the once-in-a-lifetime experiences. And while those things are wonderful and important, they aren’t the foundation. They’re the punctuation marks in a much longer, ongoing sentence. The real story is written in the in-between moments—the ones we so often dismiss as ordinary.

Think about how much of life is spent in the mundane. The mornings spent making breakfast, the afternoons running errands, the evenings cleaning up messes that will inevitably reappear the next day. At first glance, these moments seem insignificant, but they are the very fabric of our lives. If we are always looking ahead to the next big thing, we risk missing the quiet beauty in what’s happening right now.

I think about the way my daughter looked at those flowers, how she saw beauty in something I had dismissed as background. It makes me wonder: How often do I overlook the beauty in my own life because I’m too focused on what I think should be the main event? How often do I rush through the simple, everyday moments because I don’t recognize them for what they are—gifts?

When I look back on my own childhood, some of my most cherished memories aren’t the big vacations or grand celebrations. They’re the little things. The way my mom made my favorite meal on cold nights. The sound of my dad’s laughter when he told a joke. The books we read together, the stories told at the dinner table, the way home always felt safe and warm. These were the things that shaped me, the things that made life full. And yet, as an adult, I often find myself dismissing these same types of moments in my own life as just the filler between more important events.

But what if the filler is the point? What if the things we brush past in pursuit of something grander are actually the things that matter most? What if, years from now, my children don’t remember the big events nearly as much as they remember the small, steady love woven through the everyday moments?

The bouquet of baby’s breath on my kitchen island is a quiet reminder. A reminder to slow down. To notice. To appreciate the moments that don’t demand attention but are beautiful nonetheless. A reminder that what seems small can be incredibly strong, and what seems like filler might just be the foundation.

And really, how could I have ever thought that something literally named baby’s breath—the most precious thing of all—could be inferior? Maybe the things we dismiss as background details are actually the heart of it all. Maybe the filler is what makes life full.