I’ve spent the last few weeks pouring over old journals and trying to remember what you were like back then—and what I was like—and trying to figure out just when it was that you first stopped needing me. This whole journey into and through motherhood is wholly rewarding and completely heartbreaking all at once.

I remember sitting in the hospital room, only 20 hours from becoming a mother for the first time, and already missing your presence. I was astounded at the ache I felt when you left the room. It was such a strange feeling…I had carried you in my belly for 9 months, talking to you, singing to you, feeling you move, and yet I didn’t know you. I had struggled to feel any kind of connection with you, a tiny life growing and changing and becoming inside of my own. I hadn’t seen you, hadn’t touched you, hadn’t begun to even imagine what it would be like… It was the moment they laid you on my chest for the first time that changed everything. I can’t possibly explain the relief I felt, all tangled up with joy and wonder. I knew in that instant that I loved you. That I had somehow always loved you. “Hi honey…” I whispered through my tears, smiling into your little face. Jon kissed my forehead, tears falling freely, overcome. He held you for hours that first night, gazing into your face, watching you sleep with such love in his eyes. I wish I could describe how beautiful you were to us—how fiercely precious. Your father and I would sit holding you, staring into your dark eyes, memorizing your cheeks, nose, lips, tiny toes and fingers… I wish I could describe the peace I felt when you cried after your first moments in the world and Jon touched your soft skin, whispered your name, and you were instantly quiet. You knew his voice, and somehow that made everything feel all right. You needed us so desperately back then. You needed to be held, to be fed, to be rocked to sleep, to be changed and reassured and sung to in the middle of the night…

Two weeks went quickly by, and my heart still leapt every time I looked at you. You had started opening your eyes more, looking around, taking everything in, and staring at all the faces. You listened intently whenever anyone would talk to you, like you were trying to memorize everything about them. Your eyes were so captivating and so deep…I loved those moments when I would hold you and you would stare up at my face, your dark eyes searching deep into mine. My world simply turned over every time. We spent every waking moment together, you and I! And every hour of the night you were snuggled by my side.

But then you were three. Your Welsch cheeks thinned out, your hair grew down past your shoulders, and you had the most contagious laugh! You were so smart, and so full of life and had so much to say. And then I dropped you off for your first day of preschool, and as I watched your teacher take your hand and lead you away, it was like watching a piece of my heart leave. I remember spending the morning with my thoughts muffled in a surreal fog, and then I stood in the church foyer waiting to pick you up, my heart dropping down into my stomach and my eyes clouding over and my soul just aching for you. You spent all morning without me—playing without me, learning without me, meeting people I didn’t yet know—having the beginnings of your own little life apart from me. As I waited to see your beautiful face round the corner, I missed you so terribly and I wanted to squeeze you and never let go ever…And then I saw you, and watched your eyes search the crowd for me, and watched the smile form on your beautiful lips when you found me, and I knew I couldn’t stop you from growing. It made me excited for you, thinking about all the things you would learn, and all of the life you would experience, but it wrecked me to realize how badly I wanted to be there for every second of it. It was already time to start loosening my grip, to open my mama’s arms and begin releasing you—moment by little moment—out into the world. And I wasn’t ready. I had no idea how to start letting you go.

I still don’t. So many years and so many moments have passed since those early years; one day tumbling after the next in a dizzying fog of joy and heartache. And once again I find myself standing in a surreal haze, watching you walk across that stage at Cumberland Valley High School in your cap and gown, with that beautiful smile on your face. You have grown into an astonishing young lady, with a smile that lights up every room, and those same brown eyes that search deep and listen long… I catch glimpses of you sometimes that spark memories of that 4-year-old that would throw her arms around me and say “oh, mommy, I just love you SOOO much. Let me give you a hug!” You would brush the tip of your nose against my cheek, and when I remember it my breath catches and my heart aches and I just don’t know where all of that time went. I was going to savor it; all of it. Every moment. I was going to breathe deep while the laughter was sweet and the cuddles were endless. But already some of the sweetest memories are fading, and it makes me so sad in the deepest parts of my heart to let them go. But in this bittersweet dance of motherhood, I look at you, sweet girl—beautiful, kindhearted, spirit filled you—and I am so thrilled to watch where you go from here. It has been my greatest joy to be your mama all of these tenderfooted years—whether you needed me or not. And in the years to come, there may still be a day when you need to be held, or reassured, or to hear daddy’s voice and know everything’s going to be all right. But for now, I’ll just stand here and watch as you go, completely heartbroken yet wholly rewarded.