One moment, he was right in front of me. He went down the slide, ran a few feet ahead, turned a corner—and vanished. It happened in an instant. The only thing ahead of him was the lazy river, its current deceptively strong. Even if he could swim, he wouldn’t have stood a chance.
I dove in frantically, searching, calling, my heart pounding, but he was nowhere to be found. I ran through the park, every second stretching into an eternity. My mind raced, calculating the unthinkable: how long does it take for a toddler to drown? We had likely already passed that time.
Finally, I found a lifeguard and screamed for help. It was the last day of summer, the final ten minutes before the park closed for the year. I could only imagine how tired everyone was, how ready they were to clock out.
And yet, they came.
Whistles blew. People ran. A young man with quiet determination stayed with me, promising they’d find my boy. I wondered in those terrifying moments—what condition would he be in?
Then, after what felt like an eternity in panic and dread, a young girl appeared over a bridge, carrying him safely on her hip. He had simply gone behind a building to play. Relief washed over me, almost too much to bear.
There is no greater fear than losing a child. And yet, we survived—and we are the lucky ones.
Now, I dress my children in neon when we go out. They always wear flotation devices, except for slides, where rules require them to be removed. Those few minutes, unprotected, are all it took. I wish I could say I was distracted by my phone or a conversation, but I never took my eyes off him. He is just too fast, and in an instant, he was gone. The guilt has haunted my nights ever since.
The minutes he was missing blur together, but what remains etched in my mind are the people—running, swimming, calling after him. Lifeguards, staff, and bystanders alike. Mr. Rogers once said, “Look for the helpers,” and never have I understood that advice more profoundly. We can’t do it alone. Who knows what might have happened if systems weren’t in place, if strangers didn’t care?
They say it takes a village to raise a child—but it also takes a village to save one. Our children belong to all of us. We must ask for help when we need it, even when we think we don’t. Whether it’s a lost child, a sleepless infant, or a struggling teenager, it’s too much to face alone. And yet, the helpers are out there—often in plain sight, quietly waiting to rescue us when we need them most.
