Motherhood has a way of catching you off guard in the quietest moments. Tonight it was a song — La Vie en Rose, the Bridgerton version (iykyk) — and a casual scroll through old photos of Ceci. Suddenly the tears came, almost without warning, streaming down my face before I could even understand why.

Just months ago I had a tiny baby in my arms. A newborn who needed me for everything. Now she’s crawling everywhere, babbling to herself, discovering the world with a determination and a feisty attitude that surprises me every day. She reaches for things on her own. She passes the pages of her favorite books. She is becoming her own little person.

And somehow that is both the most beautiful and the most heartbreaking thing.

Motherhood feels like living in a constant paradox. You are overwhelmed with pride watching your child grow, yet a small ache settles in your chest knowing that the version of them you held yesterday will never quite exist again. The tiny hands, the sleepy newborn stretches, the way they fit perfectly against your heart — those moments pass so quietly that you barely realize they are becoming memories.

It’s a strange kind of grief, one that exists alongside immense joy. Nothing is wrong. In fact, everything is exactly as it should be. Growth is the goal. Independence is the dream. And yet, a part of you wants to pause time for just a little longer.

Maybe that’s why we take so many photos. Why we replay little memories in our minds. We are trying to bottle something that was never meant to be contained — the feeling of a moment that once existed and is now gently slipping into the past.

Motherhood might be the most beautiful tragic thing a woman experiences. Not tragic in the sense of loss, but in the way it teaches you that love and longing can live in the same breath. That your heart can expand with excitement for who your child is becoming while quietly mourning the versions of them that have already passed.

But perhaps that tenderness is the real gift.

Because if it hurts a little, it means it mattered deeply. It means those moments were filled with love so big that even time cannot erase them.

And maybe the secret of motherhood is learning that nothing is truly gone — it simply changes form. The newborn you held becomes the baby who crawls, the toddler who runs, the child who talks endlessly, and someday the person who carries pieces of you into the world.

Every stage leaves something behind and gives something new in return.

So for this reason, I’ll do the extra contact nap. I’ll let her fall asleep next to me in my bed a little longer. I’ll hold her tighter when she reaches for me and pause to soak in every belly laugh that fills the room. I want to bottle those moments — not because I can stop time, but because I want to remember exactly how it felt.

And sometimes I remind myself of something simple that many often forget: this is my first time living, too. Just like it’s her first time discovering the world, it’s my first time discovering motherhood. We are both learning life as we go.

Maybe that’s what makes it so tender. We’re growing together — two souls experiencing everything for the very first time. 🩷