Hey there, mamas.
Grab your coffee (or your third Diet Coke of the morning— no judgment here). I need to talk about something that’s been sitting heavy on my heart lately (and I can’t ignore the slight nudge from a friend to write about this), and I have a feeling I’m not (we aren’t) the only one(s) feeling it.
You know that moment when you look at your kid and realize they’re not your little baby anymore? Like, really realize it? Not just “aww, they’re growing so fast” in a cute social media caption kind of way, but the kind of realization that hits you in the chest and makes your throat tight.
My oldest is turning fourteen next month. FOURTEEN. When did that happen? One minute I’m rocking her to sleep with that tiny newborn smell, the next she’s taller than me, rolling her eyes at my jokes, and talking about middle school classes like she’s got life all figured out. And don’t get me started on the middle one—suddenly she’s got opinions about everything, styles her own hair (badly, but with confidence), and wants to walk to the park with friends instead of holding my hand. Even my baby (who’s not a baby at all anymore) is reading chapter books and asking questions that make me pause and think, “Wait, when did YOU get so big?”
I grieve it. I really do.
I grieve the chubby cheeks that are gone. The way they used to fit perfectly on my hip. The nonsensical toddler stories they’d tell me while I folded laundry. The way they’d yell “MOMMY!” every time I walked in the room like I’d been gone for years instead of five minutes. Those little voices calling me from the other room, the sticky hands, the bedtime snuggles that lasted forever because they didn’t want to let go.
That version of them is gone. And it hurts. It’s okay to say it hurts. It’s a real loss, even though no one died, even though it’s the most natural, beautiful thing in the world. We’re allowed to mourn the babies we held, the toddlers who needed us for everything, the little people who thought we hung the moon.
But here’s the other side—and mamas, this part is just as true.
I’m so proud I could burst. I’m proud when I watch my oldest stand up for a friend who’s being left out. Proud when the middle one practices her instrument without me nagging (most days). Proud when the youngest reads a whole book in one sitting and then wants to tell me every detail. I’m proud of their independence, their kindness, their quirks, the way they’re becoming these real, interesting humans who have thoughts and dreams that have nothing to do with me—and everything to do with who God made them to be.
It’s the strangest thing: holding both feelings at once. Crying in the car after dropping them off somewhere because you miss the little them, then smiling like an idiot when you see them laughing with friends or trying something new. Grieving the past while cheering for the present. Missing who they were while loving who they are right now.
Some days the grief wins, and I let myself sit in it. I pull out old photos, smell the baby blanket that’s been in storage too long, and whisper thanks for every single second I got to be their everything. Other days the joy wins, and I high-five them for acing a test or hug them extra tight because they’re still here, still mine (even if it’s different now).
Most days? It’s both. And that’s motherhood, isn’t it? This wild, beautiful, messy mix of letting go and holding on.So if you’re in the thick of it too—if your kid just lost a tooth, or got their driver’s permit, or moved into their dorm room…and you’re feeling that ache in your chest, you’re not alone. Cry the tears. Feel the pride. Let both live in your heart at the same time.
Because they’re growing up exactly the way they’re supposed to.
And somehow, some way, so are we.
What about you, mama? What’s the moment that made you feel both the grief and the joy the strongest? Drop it in the comments—I’d love to hear your heart.
With all my love (and maybe a few tears),
Mary
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