The Sacred Dance of Letting Go: A Mother's Heart
I remember that first moment, holding you in my arms. My body ached from hours of labor - a marathon of pain and determination that brought you into this world. Giving birth to you wasn't easy, but in that pain came the most profound transformation I've ever known. In those first moments, as you nestled against my chest, time seemed to both stop and rush forward all at once.
And now, in what feels like the blink of an eye, I see you at twelve (soon a teen) - caught in that delicate space between childhood and something else entirely. Sometimes I find myself holding your clothes close, breathing in the scent of a childhood that's already starting to fade. It smells of fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies from lazy Sunday afternoons, of grass stains from backyard adventures, of summer sunshine and endless laughter. But there's something new there too - the first hints of the perfume you've started to like, a subtle sign of the woman you're becoming.
They say it takes nine months to prepare a woman to become a mother - nine months of physical and emotional transformation, culminating in that intense labor of love. But what they don't tell you is that it takes eighteen years - and so much more heart-wrenching growth - to prepare a mother to let go. To learn how to loosen those invisible strings that were woven between us in that very first encounter. To understand how to set you free, to watch you spread your wings and soar into adulthood.
I see the changes happening now, small steps taking you away from our shared reality. Just last six weeks, I watched you unfold even more into yourself. I saw the way boys looked at you, and more importantly, I saw how you stood strong in who you are. It brought me back to my own first love, those butterflies dancing in my stomach, that tingling excitement of possibility. I recognize that same light in your eyes now, and my heart both soars and aches knowing what lies ahead - the joy of giving your heart away, the inevitable pain of holding it when it breaks.
The changes are both subtle and seismic. Some are visible - the way you style your hair differently now, your growing confidence in your own skin. Others are internal transformations that only a mother's heart can sense. It's both a gift and a burden, this ability to hold such a wide perspective - to see simultaneously the baby you were, the child you are, and the woman you're becoming.
This transformation is painful, yes, but it's also among the most beautiful journeys I've ever known. I find myself becoming more sensitive, more open-hearted, even as I learn to loosen my grip. I'm learning to let go of my own ideas, my own boundaries, my own limitations. I'm learning how to be more open, even when it scares me.
Perhaps this is the greatest paradox of motherhood: that our job is to create this profound bond, to nurture it with every fiber of our being, only to gradually release it. To stand at the edge of your new beginnings with arms wide open, and despite our bleeding hearts, to say, "I know you will be fine. I know you will manage. And I will always be your mother, standing here ready to catch you if you need me."
The preparation is both painful and scary, yet beautiful and exciting. It's a dance of holding on and letting go, of cherishing what was while embracing what will be. And through it all, through every step of this sacred journey, my love for you only grows stronger, deeper, more complete.
They never tell you this part in the parenting books - how to navigate this exquisite ache of watching your child step into their own light. But perhaps that's because it's different for every mother, every child, every journey... This is ours, and I wouldn't have it any other way.
The Letting Go
(A Mother's Poem)
In your first breath, our worlds collided,
Nine months of waiting, finally united.
Through sleepless nights and sun-filled days,
I watched you grow in countless ways.
Chocolate chips and summer laughter,
Now perfume trails and moments after.
Your childhood clothes still hold the scent
Of all the precious years we've spent.
Twelve years old, caught in-between,
No longer child, not yet sixteen.
I see you bloom, transform and grow,
While learning slowly to let go.
First crushes, dreams, and butterflies,
Your heart so ready to touch the skies.
I hold my own heart, raw and true,
As you become a self that's new.
The hardest part of mother's love
Is stepping back, but still above
Watching, waiting, arms spread wide,
Ready to catch, but letting you glide.
For eighteen years I've held you near,
Now freedom calls, and yes, I fear,
But love means trusting you to fly,
While keeping watch from nearby.
Beautiful!!