One Day, You Wake Up…

One day, you wake up and your babies aren’t babies anymore.

They’re not little kids with chubby hands reaching for yours. They’re not wide-eyed tweens asking endless questions about the world. They’re teenagers now—full-fledged, taller-than-you, deeper-voiced, sharp-minded teenagers.

It happens so quietly, almost in secret. Day by day, moment by moment, and then suddenly, bam—you’re looking at someone entirely new. You love who they are becoming. You stand in awe of their growth, their humor, their independence. These new people, these evolving souls, are incredible. But they’re also strangers in some ways… people you hadn’t quite known before.

And yet, there are these beautiful flickers of the past—the roots you planted long ago. A familiar laugh that echoes the little kid they once were.

A unique way they pronounce a word that hasn’t changed since they were three. A sudden hug, a soft “thanks, Mom,” and you catch a glimpse of the child within the teenager.

But their needs… oh, how they’ve changed.

They no longer trail behind you everywhere you go. They don’t beg to sit on your lap or watch movies snuggled under the same blanket. They’re out—out with friends, out chasing their own worlds. And when they are home, the door is often shut, their voices muffled behind headphones, their attention lost to screens and group chats.

You long for the fullness of the house you used to know. The noise. The laughter. The arguing over who isn’t sharing. The sound of little feet running down the hall. Now, it’s… quieter. Almost too quiet sometimes.

So you say yes. Yes to every ride they ask for, every sleepover drop-off, every cooked breakfast or lunch—because it’s a chance to be with them, to feel needed, even for just a little while. You hold onto those slivers of time, tucking them into your heart.

And when they forget to kiss you goodbye because they’re too excited to see their friends, you smile, but you feel the sting of tears in your eyes. A soft ache whispers, What happened to my babies?

If only you could go back. Sit on the floor a little longer. Play that silly game one more time. Hug them tighter, hold on for an extra second. And in those hardest, most challenging moments—the tantrums, the endless mess, the exhaustion—you wish you could’ve whispered to yourself, This will pass… and one day, you’ll miss even this.

Because you do.

And yet, there is a strange, beautiful peace in it all. A bittersweet rhythm to life—of holding on and letting go, of watching love grow and shift into something new. Equanimity, they call it. That delicate balance of gratitude for what was, love for what is, and acceptance for what’s still to come.

Life moves. Children grow. And though it aches in ways you can’t always put into words, it’s also breathtakingly beautiful.