I didn’t notice the years passing while they were happening. I was too busy being a mom, working full-time, and chasing a very difficult property management job. Somehow, along the way, time quietly slipped through my fingers. And now, in 2025, I’m watching my children step into moments I once only imagined: a son getting married and building a life in Texas, and a daughter graduating from college and beginning a career she worked so hard for. These are the kind of beautiful milestones we pray for, and yet they carry an ache with them, because with every step forward they take, I realize how many years I didn’t see passing until they were already gone.
I couldn’t be any prouder of my kids if I tried. And still, there are moments when the weight of it all settles in, unexpected and heavy, and the tears come out of nowhere.
First comes love. Then comes marriage. But no one tells you that alongside those moments, a mother quietly grieves. Not because she wants them back. Not because she isn’t thrilled for what’s ahead. But because time is a sneaky thief that has taken something precious without ever asking permission.
I miss the versions of them I forgot were temporary. The bedtime routines. The homework. The drop off at friends’ homes. Waiting for the sound of a car pulling into the driveway. The years when “home” was the center of their universe, not a place they returned to for holidays and short visits.
And yet… here we are.
Watching them become who they were always meant to be.
And it really is the complicated part of it all. We raise them to leave us and to build their own lives, and then we’re surprised when they do exactly that. We celebrate loudly while holding our breath. We smile through tears we don’t always explain. We learn how to be proud yet tender all at the same time.
This year has reminded me that time doesn’t slow down just because our hearts want it to. It keeps moving quietly while carrying our children along. It doesn’t care if you’re ready or not. And maybe the grief isn’t about loss at all. Perhaps it’s about transition. About realizing that love doesn’t disappear — it just simply changes shape.
So I’m trying to learn how to stand in the middle of it all. To honor the ache I feel without letting it steal my joy. To look at my children — one starting a marriage, one starting a career — and say, “I see you. I’m proud of you. And I’m still right here.“
Because while time may be a thief, it’s also a gift. And the years we don’t see passing? They leave us with stories, memories, and hearts full enough to last a lifetime.
Here’s a photo from this year that stops me every time I see it. When others look at it, they might see a mother struggling to let go of her son. That’s not what I see. I see a mother who ran out of time. A mother who spent years building a career she hated while life moved quietly forward. A mother who made mistakes, who wishes she could reach back and gather up more moments, more ordinary days, more chances to hear the little voice of her babies again. I see a mother’s deep love for her child. The child whose life is becoming everything he hoped for. And that matters more than time ever did.
So hold onto the keepsakes. The tiny notes, the artwork, the cards tucked into drawers, the mementos others would call clutter. They aren’t clutter at all. They are time capsules. They will become some of your most prized possessions. This year, I had all of our home videos turned into digital files, and it has been one of the greatest gifts for our family. Moments we forgot. Voices we hadn’t heard in years. Memories that rushed back in and wrapped around us like a big, warm hug. While time may be a thief, the memories we choose to cherish will carry us forward — long after the years we didn’t see passing.
What’s the story?
It’s still being written.
Just JeniLu 