There is so much in life that we are constantly striving for.

We chase goals. We build businesses. We train for races. We join organizations and committees. We pour our time and energy into making an impact, hoping to leave things a little better than we found them.

Maybe it looks like running a marathon. Maybe it looks like building a company that employs 500 people and solves a problem that desperately needs solving. Maybe it looks like being part of an organization that fills a gap while larger, flashier successes are happening all around it.

Humankind has always been in pursuit of something bigger. We want to contribute. We want to matter. We want to know that our small stroke on the canvas of the world added something meaningful to the picture.

I see people making incredible things happen every day, and honestly, I love it. I love watching people dream big and then do the hard work required to bring those dreams to life.

But this Friday, I was reminded of an even bigger picture. And it came from a batch of snickerdoodles.

One of my boys had an appointment early Saturday morning. Without hesitation, he already knew his Friday night summer plans would have to be cut short. Add to that the fact that I’m currently limited in what I can lift, and when I needed to go vacuum hunting, he got drafted into carting his mom around town.

I fully took advantage of the situation.

As we drove around, we talked about everything. Lacrosse. College visits. His top school choices. Plans for the next day. You know, the preemptive teenage conversation that basically translates into, “Mom, I already have plans tomorrow, so don’t ask.”

Somewhere in the middle of all of that, he mentioned snickerdoodles.

More specifically, he mentioned how much he remembered loving the snickerdoodles made by our neighbor’s grandmother, who also happens to be our neighbor. He couldn’t remember the exact taste, but he remembered how much he loved them and how special they felt.

Now, I have somehow made it through life without ever eating a snickerdoodle.

So naturally, I asked what was in them. His response was basically, “I don’t know.”

So we did what everyone does these days: Ask Siri.

A few seconds later, we learned that snickerdoodles are surprisingly simple. On a whim, I asked, “Do you want to make some?”

The response was exactly what I expected from a 17-year-old boy: a casual, noncommittal “Maybe.”

Hours later, after returning home empty-handed from our vacuum mission, he surprised me.

“Let’s do it.”

So we did. We made snickerdoodles together. And let me tell you something. Baking with a 17-year-old is a lot easier than baking with a 7-year-old. But it’s every bit as fun.

As we measured ingredients, rolled dough and coated cookies in cinnamon sugar, I found myself thinking about something much bigger than cookies.

Ten years ago, a grandmother baked something for a little boy. She probably didn’t even think twice about it.

She wasn’t building a company or launching a movement. She wasn’t trying to change the world. She was simply sharing something she made with a child.

And yet a decade later, that small act became the reason for a memory between a mother and her son.

A seed was planted years ago, and somehow it grew into our kitchen on a random Friday night.

That’s what hit me.

We spend so much time focusing on the big things that we sometimes miss the extraordinary power of the small ones. How big they truly are. Life-altering, really. And I’m not exaggerating.

It’s funny because that same neighbor — the grandma to all the kids in the neighborhood — has checked in on me more than once lately and asked if there is anything I need while navigating some challenges. I typically decline because, honestly, I don’t need anything.

But that woman, without me even realizing what I all needed, gave me something extraordinary today through an action she took a decade ago.

She gave me one of the greatest memories I will carry with me. And a reminder that impact isn’t always found in the big accomplishments, the businesses we build, the races we run, the titles we earn or the causes we champion. Sometimes it’s found in a simple act of kindness that quietly plants a seed.

And years later, when you least expect it, that seed grows into a moment so meaningful that it stops you in your tracks.

That’s the thing about the small stuff. It isn’t small at all.

And that is everything.