I am not a philosophical person—though I do seem to spend a fair amount of time thinking on a philosophical level, which feels like a technicality philosophers would absolutely argue about.

To me, philosophy is food for reflection. It’s universal. Every culture has its own way of wrestling with the same big questions about choice, responsibility, and meaning—usually without calling it philosophy and often while eating something very good.

Recently, while digging through old papers and lesson plans from my classroom days (a task that always begins with nostalgia and ends with why did I keep this?), I came across a sticky note attached to one of the documents. Scribbled on it was this:

‘When you fail to show up, you are giving the world permission and authority to move around and beyond you, and you are waiving your right and privilege to say anything about it.’

That line landed. Hard.

It’s one of those truths that doesn’t raise its voice or ask for a meeting. It just stands there quietly while you realize you’ve been absent. When you don’t show up, the world doesn’t pause out of courtesy. 

It keeps rearranging itself. Decisions get made. Narratives get written. Space gets filled—by louder people, faster people, or simply whoever remembered the meeting was today. Silence, intentional or not, reads as consent.

What I appreciate about that line is the accountability baked into it. It isn’t cruel, but it’s also not warm and fuzzy. It says: presence is participation. Absence isn’t neutral—it’s a choice. And like most choices, it comes with consequences and no appeal process.

Finding that note sent me into one of those introspective moods—the kind where you retreat into your thoughts and pretend you’re “just taking a walk,” when really you’re having a full internal symposium. So during lunch supervision, I went on walkabout and let the idea follow me.

The writer in me wanted a story. I tried to place myself back in that classroom, imagining the day this quote must have come up, the profound discussion it surely inspired.

And… nothing.

I remember that year well. It was my last year in the classroom before becoming an administrator, and one of the most enjoyable years I ever taught. Those students were tough, opinionated, and deeply passionate about their beliefs. We had real conversations—about school, about life, about ice cream.

Yes, I know. The standards don’t technically cover any of that. But with the right angle, language, and enough academic vocabulary, you can justify almost anything. Still, I couldn’t remember why this particular thought surfaced back then. 

Maybe there was no conversation. Maybe it was just a line that resonated with me enough to scribble down and stick to a lesson plan like a philosophical Post-it note of destiny.

And maybe even now there was no point—just me, years later, reading my own handwriting and overthinking it, which is on brand.

So I let it go.

Or so I thought.

Because later that week, I heard myself saying something eerily similar to a student: if you don’t decide what you want, the world will decide for you—and you’ll be left living with a choice you never actually made. (Blank stares all around. Apparently, this was too deep for a Tuesday.)

It came out naturally, during a parent-student-teacher conference. No sticky note. No deep philosophical framing. Just a truth that apparently followed me into administration. 

That’s when it hit me: maybe the point was never the quote itself. Maybe it’s that certain ideas stick with us whether we plan lessons around them or not. They resurface years later, slightly refined, still doing the same work—quietly reminding us to show up… preferably on time.

Okay. Enough of that. Coffee. I choose coffee.

There’s more waiting at https://xinkblotz.com. Telling stories, sharing thoughts, and drinking coffee. A blend of fiction, reflection, and whatever’s brewing – one post at a time.