In a recent meditation training on empathic communication, Tara Brach shared a humorous story about Franklin D. Roosevelt. During a long receiving line at a White House event, FDR, suspecting most guests weren’t truly listening, decided to test his theory. Greeting each person, he said, “I just murdered my grandmother.” To his amusement most nodded politely and responded with comments like, “How lovely!” or “Keep up the good work!” until one foreign diplomat smiled and said, “Well, sir, I’m sure she had it coming.”

I appreciated the story as a funny reminder of how easily we run on autopilot, especially during repetitive social interactions, not realizing how quickly it would hit home.

On Friday, my son, who had stayed over for Thanksgiving, was leaving for the train. As he got ready, I sat in bed with my laptop, coffee in hand, and my poodle snuggled beside me. I vaguely registered the sounds of my husband and son chatting in the kitchen, then the door closing. A few minutes later, I realized my son hadn’t said a proper goodbye. Playfully, I called him, saying, “Oh goodbye, Mom, love you, thanks for a great Thanksgiving!” Silence.

Concerned he thought I was genuinely upset, I added, “Just teasing you for not saying goodbye.” He replied, “Mom, I actually did. I came in the room and said, ‘Bye, Mom, had a great time, love you.’ You were on your computer, but I thought you heard me.” Stunned, I asked if he was joking. Laughing, he said, “Ask Dad.”

But why leave my laptop now? Before confirming with my husband, I turned to Cathy, my AI assistant, frantically typing, “What are the signs of early dementia?” One was indeed memory loss. But I realized my concern wasn’t forgetting; it was not perceiving in the first place. Desperately, I asked Cathy, “What does it mean if my son said goodbye, and I didn’t hear it because I was on my laptop?” Gently, she replied, “It sounds like you may be uneasy about missing an important moment with your son…”

Correct, but my real question was, “How could this happen to me—after 10 years of yoga, three years of mindfulness meditation, and now teaching mindfulness?” I didn’t need Cathy for that answer. My inner voice, the one actually honed by mindfulness practice, reminded me, “Because you are human.” Ah, yes, I had forgotten.

I’d love to say this was a one-time occurrence. Realistically, it may just be one time I’m painfully aware of. How many other expressions of love or appreciation have I missed in a lifetime of distractions? The irony stings a bit. Here I am teaching a class on finding mindfulness amid the holidays’ pervasive mindlessness, yet I got lost in a computer coma, missing my own son’s heartfelt goodbye.

They say we teach what we need to learn. If you’d like to learn with me, feel free to join my next two holiday classes. Together we will seek mindful respite from our devices so we can be present for the peace and joy of the season (and save ourselves some embarrassment).