Somewhere along the way, I stopped just being their mom… and started getting to know them as people.

And no one really prepares you for that shift.

There was a time when everything about them felt like it belonged to me—their routines, their needs, their personalities still forming right in front of my eyes. I knew what they liked, what they needed, what would fix their bad day before they even had to say it out loud. I was their constant.

And then, slowly—without a big moment marking it—something started to change.

They grew into themselves.

Not just physically, but mentally, emotionally, independently. They started forming opinions that weren’t shaped by me. They reacted to things in ways I didn’t always expect. They started seeing the world through their own lens instead of just mine.

And that’s when it hit me.

I’m not just raising them anymore. I’m meeting them.

The thing nobody warned me about is that every stage of motherhood comes with a goodbye. Not a dramatic goodbye, not the kind where balloons are released into the sky and everyone cries while a sad song plays in the background. A quiet goodbye. The kind you don't even realize is happening until it's already over.

One day it's the last time they reach for your hand in a parking lot. The last time they ask you to tie their shoes. The last time they crawl into your bed because they had a bad dream. The last time they call for you from the bathtub because they need help washing their hair. The last time they want you to carry them because they're too tired to walk. Most of the time, you don't know it's the last time, and I think that's what makes it so hard.

If I had known, maybe I would have slowed down. Maybe I would have paid more attention. Maybe I would have complained a little less about stepping on Barbie shoes at two in the morning or finding Goldfish crackers crushed into places Goldfish crackers should never be. Although honestly, probably not. Motherhood is funny like that. You spend years exhausted, overstimulated, touched out, and dreaming about five uninterrupted minutes alone in the bathroom. Then one day the house gets quieter, the toys disappear, and suddenly you're emotional because nobody needs you to open a juice box anymore.

It's a scam.

A beautiful, heartbreaking scam.

Because while you're counting down to the next stage, nobody tells you that one day you'll miss the stage you're trying so hard to survive.

When my girls were little, I thought the hardest part of motherhood was keeping them alive. Making sure they ate something besides chicken nuggets. Knowing where they were every second of the day. Preventing them from turning the living room into what looked like the aftermath of a category-five hurricane. Back then, motherhood felt physical. It was diapers, car seats, scraped knees, bedtime routines, and surviving on caffeine and determination.

Now the hard part looks completely different.

Now the hard part is watching them become their own people.

And that sounds beautiful because it is beautiful. It's one of the greatest gifts I've ever experienced. But if I'm being honest, it's also painful in ways I never expected. Because every new version of them means another version is gone.

The little girl who used to tell me every detail about her day eventually became the teenager who sometimes answers with one word. The child who thought I knew everything eventually realized I am just a human trying to figure life out as I go. The girls who once needed me for everything slowly started needing me for different things.

And while that is exactly what is supposed to happen, it still catches me off guard.

Sometimes I look at them and I can see every version of them at once. The toddler. The little girl. The preteen. The teenager. The young women they're becoming. It's like all those versions still exist inside my heart while the rest of the world only gets to see who they are today.

Maybe that's why motherhood feels so emotional sometimes.

You're carrying every version they've ever been while simultaneously trying to embrace who they're becoming.

That's not easy.

Lately, I've realized something else too. Somewhere along the way, the relationship shifted. I'm still teaching them things, of course, but more and more I find myself learning from them. I learn from the way they see situations differently than I do. I learn from the way they challenge ideas I never questioned. I learn from their humor, their resilience, their honesty, and their ability to adapt to a world that looks very different than the one I grew up in.

Sometimes they stop me in my tracks because they're wiser than I was at their age.

Sometimes they teach me patience.

Sometimes they teach me accountability.

Sometimes they remind me that saying "I'm sorry" doesn't make you weak.

And occasionally they inform me that I apparently use way too many emojis.

Rude. But fair.

The older they get, the more I realize motherhood was never a one-way relationship. I thought I was shaping them all these years, and I was. But they've been shaping me too. They've taught me how to apologize when I get it wrong. They've taught me how to keep growing long after I thought I was done growing. They've taught me how to listen instead of immediately trying to fix things. They've taught me how to keep showing up even on days when I feel like I have nothing left to give.

Maybe that's why this stage feels so complicated.

It's beautiful because I get to meet these incredible people they're becoming.

It's painful because I miss the little girls they used to be.

Both things are true at the same time.

I think that's the part of motherhood nobody explains very well. People tell you to enjoy every moment because it goes fast, but they don't tell you that watching your children grow up feels a lot like holding joy and grief in the same hand. You're proud. You're excited. You're amazed. And somehow your heart aches at the exact same time.

I cry sometimes, not because I'm sad they're growing up, but because I love every version of them. I miss the little girls who used to need me for everything, and I'm incredibly proud of the young women who are learning they don't.

That's the contradiction of motherhood.

You spend years teaching them to become independent, then cry when it starts working.

And maybe that's okay.

Because I'm not losing them.

I'm meeting them.

Again and again and again.

And every new version is worth getting to know.

It’s a strange, beautiful, and sometimes emotional shift. Because you go from being the one who teaches them everything… to being the one who learns who they’re becoming. You notice things you didn’t expect—the way they handle situations, the way they express themselves, the parts of their personality that were always there but now feel louder and clearer.

There’s a quiet moment in motherhood where you realize your role is changing. You’re still their mom—that doesn’t go away—but you’re not needed in the same constant, hands-on way you once were. You’re not solving every problem or guiding every step. Instead, you’re watching, supporting, and giving space where you used to give direction.

And that takes a different kind of strength.

Because sometimes the instinct is to step in, to fix, to guide the way you always have. But now, part of loving them is letting them figure things out without you doing it for them.

And if I’m being honest, that part can be hard. Not because I don’t want them to grow, but because I miss who they used to be in certain moments. The younger versions of them. The ones who needed me for everything. The ones who saw me as the answer to all of it.

There’s a version of motherhood that lives in those memories, and letting go of that version—even just a little—comes with its own kind of ache.

But at the same time, there’s something incredibly special about this stage. Because now I get to see them—not just as my kids, but as individuals. People with their own thoughts, their own feelings, their own way of moving through the world.

And there’s something powerful about realizing that while I helped shape them, they are also becoming something entirely their own.

Motherhood doesn’t stop. It evolves. It shifts from doing everything for them to standing beside them while they learn how to do it for themselves. It becomes less about control and more about connection. Less about guiding every step and more about being someone they can come back to when they need it.

And maybe that’s the part no one really explains clearly—

They don’t stop needing you. They just need you differently.

So now, instead of just raising them, I’m getting to know them. I’m learning who they are beyond what I expected, beyond what I imagined, beyond what I thought they might become.

And even though that shift can feel emotional at times, it’s also one of the most meaningful parts of motherhood.

Because I’m not losing them. I’m meeting them again—just in a new way.

Studies on parent-child relationships show that as children move into adolescence and adulthood, the parent-child bond doesn't become less important—it simply changes form. Researchers have found that emotional connection, trust, and mutual respect become even more important than direct caregiving during these years. In other words, the goal was never to make them need us forever. The goal was to help them become themselves.

And somehow that's both the reward and the heartbreak.

Because if we're lucky, our children grow into people we admire.

If we're really lucky, they still let us be part of the journey.

So yes, I cry sometimes.

Not because I'm sad they're growing up.

Not because I want them to stay little forever.

I cry because it's beautiful.

I cry because it's working.

I cry because every day I get to meet a newer version of these two humans that I love more than words can explain.

And while a part of me will always miss the little girls they used to be, I'm finding myself incredibly proud of the women they're becoming.

Maybe that's motherhood in a nutshell.

Holding on.

Letting go.

And somehow doing both at the exact same time

~Tj🩷