Did You See That, Dad?
When I was little, I liked doing things that weren't very impressive.
I would jump off a rock that was only a foot high.
Draw a picture that looked more like a potato than a horse.
Kick a football that travelled mostly sideways.
But every time I did something, I'd look around for the same person.
My Dad.
And when I found him, I'd shout:
"Did you see that, Dad?"
Most of the time he smiled.
Sometimes he laughed.
Occasionally he looked confused and asked what he was supposed to have seen.
But it didn't matter.
Because he had looked.
And somehow that made the moment bigger.
Years passed.
I grew taller.
The jumps got higher.
The drawings got better.
The football travelled in the right direction more often.
Yet something strange happened.
The question never really changed.
As a teenager I wanted friends to see me.
As a young man I wanted customers to see me.
As an adult I wanted my wife, my children and the world to see what I was trying to build.
The question was still there.
Only the audience had changed.
"Did you see that?"
Then one day, without anybody really noticing, the world invented something new.
A little button called "Like."
And suddenly millions of people were asking the same question all at once.
Look at my photograph.
Look at my holiday.
Look at my breakfast.
Look at my life.
Did you see that?
For a while it felt wonderful.
But something was different.
A hundred likes felt nice.
A thousand felt better.
Ten thousand felt better still.
Yet somehow it never felt quite the same as one quiet smile from someone who genuinely cared.
Because being watched and being seen are not the same thing.
A camera can watch you.
A computer can watch you.
A crowd can watch you.
But being seen is different.
Being seen means somebody notices not only what you did but why it mattered to you.
And that changes things.
One day I started wondering about something else.
What if the reason children ask, "Did you see that?" isn't because they want applause?
What if they're really asking something deeper?
What if they're asking:
"Do I matter?"
Perhaps that's why a child runs to show a drawing.
Why a teenager shows a report card.
Why a parent keeps photographs on their phone.
Why grandparents proudly tell the same stories over and over again.
Maybe we're all asking the same question.
Not: "Am I successful?"
Not: "Am I famous?"
Not even: "Am I right?"
But simply:
"Do I matter?"
And maybe the answer has never been hidden in applause or popularity.
Maybe it lives in something much smaller.
A parent looking up from their newspaper.
- A friend listening carefully.
- A teacher noticing effort.
- A stranger offering kindness.
A person saying:
"Yes. I saw. And I'm glad you showed me."
Because perhaps the greatest gift we can give one another isn't advice.
Or money. Or even time.
Perhaps it's attention. Real attention.
The kind that says:
- I see you.
- I hear you.
- You matter.
And maybe that's why, even now, after all these years, a small part of the little boy inside me still smiles whenever someone notices.
Because no matter how old we become, a tiny voice remains.
Quietly asking the same question.
"Did you see that?"