My mom is a constant in my life in so many ways.

Host:
The ocean stretched endlessly beneath the orange haze of the sunset, its surface glittering like scattered gold dust over restless water. The waves came in slow, steady rhythms, like breath, like memory, like something eternal repeating itself without ever growing tired.

On a quiet stretch of California beach, a pair of volleyball nets stood against the wind, their ropes trembling softly. The sand, still warm from the daylight, bore faint footprints that led nowhere and everywhere.

Jack sat on the sand, a beer bottle half-buried beside him, his hands clasped, his eyes distant, following the waves as though they carried an answer he’d been waiting for. Jeeny stood a few steps away, her bare feet pressed into the sand, her hair whipping in the wind. She was watching the sky as it began to deepen into violet.

Between them lay a folded paper napkin with the quote written on it, in her looping handwriting:

“My mom is a constant in my life in so many ways.” – Kerri Walsh Jennings

Jeeny:
(looking toward the horizon)
She said, “My mom is a constant.” There’s something so quietly powerful about that. Not loud, not dramatic—just steady. Like the tide.

Jack:
(smiling faintly, eyes still on the water)
Yeah. Constancy doesn’t get much applause. People worship storms, not anchors.

Host:
The wind blew softly, lifting grains of sand, scattering them like tiny sparks. A few seagulls drifted overhead, their cries distant, fading into the low hum of the sea.

Jeeny:
Maybe because constancy isn’t seen—it’s felt. You don’t notice it until it’s gone.

Jack:
(turns to her)
You think that’s what she meant? That her mom wasn’t just there for the big things, but in the quiet repetitions—the texts, the calls, the way she probably still asks if she’s eating enough?

Jeeny:
Exactly. Love isn’t just in the grand gestures. It’s in the background hum—the voice that never changes, even when everything else does.

Host:
The sky had darkened further, the sun’s edge melting into the ocean, a final shimmer of light before surrender. The waves whispered and withdrew, their sound both soothing and ancient.

Jack:
You ever notice how people talk about their mothers like gravity? Always there, always pulling them back—sometimes gently, sometimes not.

Jeeny:
(smiles softly)
That’s because mothers are gravity. You orbit them even when you think you’ve escaped.

Jack:
(chuckles, shaking his head)
You always make it sound poetic.

Jeeny:
Poetry’s the only language big enough for mothers.

Host:
The wind picked up, tugging at Jeeny’s hair, sending it fluttering across her face. She didn’t move it away—just closed her eyes for a moment, letting the breeze do what it would.

Jeeny:
You know, Kerri Walsh Jennings—she’s an athlete, right? A powerhouse. And yet when she talks about her mom, she sounds like a child again. That’s what constancy does—it brings you home no matter how far you’ve gone.

Jack:
(nodding slowly)
Home isn’t a place. It’s a person.

Jeeny:
Or sometimes, it’s a presence. Even when they’re not around, it’s the voice in your head saying, “You’ve got this.”

Jack:
(smiles faintly)
Or the one that says, “Don’t mess it up.”

Jeeny:
(laughs)
Exactly. The voice that corrects you and comforts you in the same breath.

Host:
Their laughter was brief but warm, carried away quickly by the wind, dissolving into the sound of the waves. Then came the silence again—not empty, but full of something sacred, like prayer.

Jack:
My mom used to leave notes in my lunchbox. Dumb stuff—drawings of stick figures playing basketball, or jokes that didn’t make sense. I pretended to hate them. But now… I think that was her way of saying “I see you” every day.

Jeeny:
(softly)
That’s what mothers do. They find tiny ways to be infinite.

Jack:
(looks at her)
You think we ever outgrow that need?

Jeeny:
No. We just call it by other names—support, friendship, home. But it’s the same need. To know someone’s constant, even when you fail, even when you leave.

Host:
The waves rolled closer now, licking at the edge of the sand, almost reaching the tips of Jeeny’s feet. She didn’t move. Jack’s eyes followed the tide, the rhythm of it—forward, back, forward, back—constant, like the pulse of memory.

Jack:
When she says “my mom is a constant,” it sounds so simple, but it’s actually monumental. Most of us spend our whole lives chasing constancy—in people, in love, in ourselves. She’s saying she already found it.

Jeeny:
Maybe she didn’t find it. Maybe she inherited it. That steadiness. It’s like emotional DNA.

Jack:
(quietly)
I wish I’d had that.

Jeeny:
(turns to him, gently)
Maybe you did, and you just didn’t see it. Sometimes love doesn’t shout. It whispers.

Host:
Her words hung in the air, tender but sharp, like sea glass—smooth at the edges but still able to catch light. Jack looked down at the sand between his fingers, running it through them slowly, as if he were sifting through memories.

Jack:
You ever think constancy is underrated because it’s not dramatic?

Jeeny:
Of course. Drama is easy to recognize. Constancy is invisible until it’s gone.

Jack:
(half-smile)
So, the loudest kind of love is the quietest one.

Jeeny:
(nods)
Exactly. The kind that doesn’t change tone, even when you do.

Host:
The tide began to climb higher, washing away the footprints they’d left behind. The sky turned from violet to deep indigo, the first stars beginning to appear—quiet witnesses to the conversation below.

Jack:
You know, I always thought strength was about moving forward. But maybe real strength is about staying—the way a mother stays.

Jeeny:
Maybe that’s what constancy really is. Movement disguised as stillness. Staying when everything else keeps leaving.

Jack:
(softly)
And maybe that’s why she said “in so many ways.” Because constancy isn’t just being there—it’s being different things at different times, yet somehow the same person.

Jeeny:
Yes. The hand that holds you and the one that lets you go.

Host:
The wind carried their words away, but not their meaning. The sea, tireless and faithful, whispered against the shore, its rhythm matching the steady beat of something ancient—something like love that endures.

Jeeny:
When I was little, my mom used to hum to herself when she cleaned the house. I never realized until now—it was her way of anchoring the day. She was reminding the world she was there.

Jack:
(smiles)
Maybe all mothers hum. Just not all of them out loud.

Host:
They both looked out at the water—dark now, infinite, alive—and for a while, neither spoke. The silence between them was full of presence, the kind that felt like being held.

Jack:
So, her mom was her constant. And that constancy became her strength.

Jeeny:
And now her strength becomes someone else’s constant. That’s how it goes. One generation steadies the next.

Jack:
Like waves.

Jeeny:
(nodding)
Exactly. Each one carving, softening, shaping—until what’s left is something eternal.

Host:
The moonlight broke through the clouds then, spilling over the water, the sand, their faces. The world shimmered—quiet, holy, alive.

They didn’t move. They didn’t need to. The ocean breathed for them, and somewhere, far beyond sight, a mother’s love echoed in the waves, steady as the tide.

Host (closing):
And in that moment, under the endless sky, they understood—
that constancy is not stillness,
but rhythm.

That love, the truest kind, doesn’t arrive or depart.
It simply remains.