Originally written on Medium.com here.
I don’t consider myself a writer — just someone who writes. I also don’t consider myself a runner, though I’ve finally gotten back into running after a year-long hiatus. I also don’t see myself as a programmer, though I do write software for companies as part of my own business. Sometimes.
I suppose I’m not a big fan of labels. They’re too heavy sometimes, and often given way too much importance. So, most of the time I avoid the labels, even though I do the things the labels describe.
That’s why I tell my wife I’m not a cynic even when I’m being cynical.
And that’s why it’s funny that I’m writing this essay — maybe even a bit ironic. Because this one’s about a moment that didn’t mean anything. A moment with no message. A story with no twist.
And yet… here I am. Making it a story anyway.
A few weeks ago, I noticed that a client I’ve worked with for years hadn’t paid an invoice. That happens sometimes. They’re usually prompt, occasionally a few days late. This time, though, it was weeks. Long enough that I had to send a polite check-in email.
Their accounts payable person replied and said there were some “questions” about the invoice. I responded: “Why not just reach out with your questions so we can resolve it quickly?”
She replied that she had been on vacation. The invoice stayed in her task list, untouched. She returned, got caught up, and sent me the questions. I answered them. Payment was made.
That’s it. That’s the story.
There was no betrayal. No larger lesson about trust, communication, or patience. Nothing cracked open inside me. The relationship is fine. I didn’t spiral. There was no sting to recover from. It just… happened. I worked. I got paid.
But when I sat down to write this essay, I immediately tried to make it something more.
Maybe I could make it about professional boundaries. Or unspoken expectations. Or the fragility of long-term trust and relationships in this weird time. Maybe I could make it about control and what it feels like when someone else tries to slow your momentum. (With one word — tries — I created my villain.)
If you work hard enough at it, most things can be turned into metaphors. I’ve spent a lot of this past year dissecting my life. Finding insights in my memories. Sifting through the small stuff for meaning. And that has been good work.
Sometimes, though, I find myself reaching for meaning in everything.
A lot of the time, the ordinary isn’t a doorway to anything deeper. It’s just… ordinary.
I wear a red t-shirt at least three days a week. It’s not a branding strategy. Red has just always been my favorite color.
But I couldn’t tell you the first time I wore a red shirt and thought, Yes, this is it. This is the color of my people and the center of my personal brand. There was no moment of transformation. It just accumulated over time.
Same with my preference for two pieces of toast with two waffled eggs. Or how I load the dishwasher. Or why I talk the way I do. These weren’t decisions. They were patterns. None of them ever felt profound in real time. But somehow, they still shaped me.
We like to imagine we can pinpoint the moment we became who we are. Like life is a highlight reel and every frame is a lesson. That’s gotten especially pronounced in the InstaBookChatTok days we live in. But the truth is, most of it is filler; background noise. And that’s not bad. That’s just the rhythm of life.
There is a red jacket story, though, that’s worth telling.
Back in elementary school, I had a red jacket I was obsessed with. Even when it was too warm to wear it, I’d tie it around my waist — just in case. One day at recess, my shorts tore in the back. We’re talking fully exposed underwear.
Luckily, I had that jacket. It was already wrapped around my waist when the “incident” occurred, and the tear spent the rest of the day hidden in plain sight. No one ever knew.
Did the jacket mean something? Was it a metaphor for preparation? A symbol of youthful intuition? No. It was just a red jacket that saved me from public humiliation. And I loved it more than ever after that.
What I’m slowly learning — through life, through writing, through countless moments that I sometimes try to turn into declarations — is that not every moment is a message.
Some things just happen. Not because you needed a reminder. Not because the universe was testing your resolve. Not because it was time for your next phase of personal growth.
Just because.
And that doesn’t mean those moments don’t matter. It just means they don’t have to be explained or exploited. Some days you work and get paid. Some days you wear red. Some days you’re just glad you brought a jacket.
There’s still a part of me that wants to assign meaning to even that realization. To say something like: “And that’s what freedom looks like — being okay when things don’t mean anything.”
But maybe I’ll resist the urge. Just this once.
Maybe I’ll let this moment be what it is. Not a message. Not a metaphor. Just a small, forgettable thing that happened on an otherwise normal day.
And maybe that’s enough.
Thanks for reading, and before you go…
I’m Aaron Pace. I write from the middle of things — life, business, fatherhood, faith, and the slow work of becoming someone I can live with. Not as an expert, but as someone trying to pay attention.
If this piece resonated with you, I’d be honored if you followed along here on Medium. I write — not because I’ve arrived, but because I’m finally moving again.
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