The Custodian and the Crown

My daughter came home from school today brimming with excitement.

“They recognized our custodian today!” she said, eyes shining.

“And you know what? I think I’d like to be a custodian.”

Now, I’ll admit, my first instinct was to wonder how long this ambition would last. She’s eight, after all, and last week she wanted to be a professional bubble artist. But the part that mattered wasn’t the career choice. It was the love. Someone at her school shined a light on a person who normally does their work in the background, and that attention slipped into her consciousness. She thought: this role is important. This role is loved.

And she wasn’t wrong.

The Work We See vs. The Work We Don’t

We live in a culture that’s gotten very good at deciding what’s glamorous. “Important” gets measured in job titles that fit neatly on a LinkedIn profile or in careers with obvious power, polish, or prestige. But so much of what makes our world livable never even gets a trophy emoji.

What happens when we stop noticing? We end up thinking value only lives in the loud, the shiny, the spotlighted. We forget that some of the most critical roles are the quietest ones. The ones that keep the lights on, the hallways clean, the wheels turning. Remove them from the story, and suddenly the whole thing collapses.

Imagine a world without custodians. Or without delivery drivers. Or bus drivers. Or dishwashers. Strip away these jobs that society likes to tuck behind the curtain, and you don’t get a utopia—you get a mess.

A Child’s Clarity

What I love about my daughter’s declaration is the innocence of her perspective. She doesn’t yet know how society sorts jobs into “admirable” and “invisible.” All she knew was: people loved someone today, and that made the role valuable.

And isn’t that the truest barometer?

Elevating What Sustains Us

It makes me wonder: when did we decide that value must equal glamour? That some people’s work deserves a standing ovation and others, at best, a polite nod?

We are a community, whether we like it or not. And communities fray when we forget the scaffolding that holds them up. To elevate only the roles that look good in a yearbook superlative is to risk a society where only a small fraction feel seen. That’s not a world any of us want to live in.

So here’s my small thank you. To the custodians, yes, but also to the quiet laborers of daily life. To everyone whose work is essential and unsung. Because the truth is, when my daughter looks up to you—even for a day—she’s right. You deserve it.