This Is the Season I’ll Remember Most

Lottie
6 days ago
4 min read

There will be many seasons in this life—some louder, some fuller, some marked by milestones and movement.

But I already know this one will be different.

This is the season I’ll remember most—not because everything is perfect, but because everything feels alive in a way that can’t be replicated later. Because the days are heavy with meaning, even when they’re light on sleep. Because love feels constant and consuming and woven into every ordinary moment.

This season isn’t something I’ll need photos to recall. It’s etched too deeply for that.

When Life Feels Both Full and Fleeting

There’s a particular weight to this chapter of motherhood—the kind that presses gently on your chest when you pause long enough to notice it.

The days feel long. The nights blur together. And yet somehow, everything is passing far too quickly.

Children grow in ways that aren’t always visible day to day, but unmistakable over time. Hands that once fit perfectly in yours begin to loosen their grip. Voices deepen. Preferences emerge. Independence quietly takes root.

You don’t notice it happening in real time. You notice it in hindsight.

That’s what makes this season so tender.

The Beauty Hidden in the Ordinary

What I’ll remember most won’t be the big moments.

It will be the way the house feels just before bedtime. The sound of small feet padding down the hallway. The weight of a child falling asleep against your shoulder.

It will be the routines that felt repetitive but were actually sacred. The same books read night after night. The same songs sung softly in the dark. The same questions asked over and over, just to hear the answer again.

These moments don’t announce their importance—but they stay.

When Your World Shrinks and Expands at the Same Time

Motherhood has a way of shrinking your world physically while expanding it emotionally.

Your radius becomes smaller. Your days revolve around home, routines, familiar places. And yet your inner world grows vast—filled with responsibility, love, worry, hope, and a depth of feeling you didn’t know you were capable of holding.

This season asks you to live small and feel big.

And that contrast—the quiet days paired with enormous love—is something you can’t explain until you’ve lived it.

The Version of Yourself You’ll Miss

One day, you’ll miss this version of yourself.

The one who knew every detail of your children’s days. The one who was needed constantly. The one who structured life around naps and snacks and bedtime rituals.

Not because it was easy—but because it was intimate.

There is something profoundly grounding about being at the center of someone’s world. About being the place they return to instinctively. About being the constant in a life that is just beginning.

That role evolves. It always does.

But this version of it—this season of closeness—will never quite return in the same way.

The Quiet Knowing

There are moments when you know you’re in the middle of something you’ll long for later.

Not all the time. Not every day.

But in flashes.

While folding tiny clothes. While brushing hair. While watching siblings interact without realizing they’re being watched.

In those moments, there’s a quiet ache—not of sadness, but of awareness.

This is temporary.This is precious.This will pass.

Letting Go While You’re Still Holding On

One of the hardest parts of this season is learning to let go while you’re still very much holding on.

You hold routines. You hold hands. You hold space for emotions that are still learning how to exist.

And at the same time, you begin releasing expectations—of how long this will last, of how much control you have, of how permanent any season truly is.

There is grief in that release. And gratitude.

Often at the same time.