Ducky Mommy

Last week, I downloaded Pokémon GO. Ten years late.

My husband laughed when he saw it, and I can’t really blame him. There was a time when people filled the streets chasing Pokémon, when parks were crowded with players and it felt like a shared moment across the world. That moment has passed, and here I am now, standing at a bus stop, phone in hand, trying to catch a Bulbasaur as if I had been part of it from the beginning.

The truth is, I don’t really understand the game. I don’t know the rules beyond the very basics, I don’t have any strategy, and I’m not even sure what I’m supposed to aim for. I walk, I tap, and sometimes I catch something. Most of the time, I ask my daughter simple questions like what does CP mean, is this one good, should I keep it. I am clearly not the intended player. But that was never really the point.

A few weeks ago, my daughter came home from the hospital, and since then I have been quietly looking for something that could bring a little movement back into her days without turning it into a requirement. When someone is dealing with depression, even the smallest things can feel heavy, and the more direct the intention is, the more difficult it can become to accept. I didn’t want every conversation to revolve around appointments, medication, or what needed to be improved. All of that is necessary, of course, but it can quickly take over everything else. I was not looking for a solution, just for a way to create a different kind of space between us.

So instead of suggesting a walk or insisting on fresh air, I asked her if she wanted to play with me. It was a small shift in words, but it changed the tone completely. There was no expectation behind it, no hidden objective, just something light enough to say yes to. And she did. Since then, we have been going out together, not for long or with any specific plan, just short walks around the neighborhood, sometimes no more than ten or fifteen minutes. There is no distance to reach, no pace to maintain, no goal to achieve. We simply step outside and see what happens.

What surprised me is how naturally the conversations followed. Instead of returning to the same necessary topics, we began to talk about what appeared on the screen, about the small things we noticed along the way. A new Pokémon, a higher CP, a small discovery that, on its own, would not mean much, but somehow becomes enough when it is shared. These exchanges are simple, almost insignificant, but they carry no weight. There is no right or wrong way to respond, no expectation to explain or justify anything. It is just a moment, and then another one, and then another.

Slowly, I began to understand that this was not about the game at all. It was about creating a space where being together does not require effort, where silence is not uncomfortable, and where connection can exist without being defined or questioned. Some days we talk more, some days we barely speak, but even then, there is something steady in the fact that we are walking side by side, paying attention to the same small details. It is a different kind of presence, one that does not ask for anything and yet holds a lot.

From the outside, it probably looks a bit strange. An older woman standing somewhere, focused on her phone, catching imaginary creatures. It might even look slightly out of place. I have thought about it, briefly, but not enough to let it matter. Because what people see is only the surface, and the surface rarely tells the whole story. They don’t see that this has nothing to do with Pokémon, and they don’t see that I am not trying to learn the game or catch them all.

What they don’t see is that this is simply a way of keeping a connection alive, quietly and without pressure. As parents, we often try to fix, to guide, to improve, to find the right approach that will make things better. But sometimes, what is needed is not another solution. It is something small and indirect, something that does not feel like effort, something that allows both sides to meet without having to explain why.

This just happens to be ours.

Maybe one day we will stop playing, the way all small routines eventually fade. But for now, it gives us a reason to step outside together, to share something new, to let the days move a little differently. It brings a bit of lightness into a space that can easily become heavy, and it does so without asking anything in return.

So yes, I started ten years late. But I didn’t start for the same reason. And in the end, I am not really catching Pokémon. I am simply holding on to something much more important, one quiet walk at a time.