A Season That Only Lasts a Moment

Every year, my favorite tree blooms.

Catalpas have these gorgeous heart-shaped leaves with soft, freckled popcorn-like blossoms that fall like snow. They are messy + beautiful, but the blooms don’t last long.

She’s growing up so fast…longer legs, deeper questions, quicker independence. I can almost hear the clock ticking louder these days. My camera is the only way to press pause, but even I know that isn’t how this works. She’s be older than she is here by tomorrow, and there’s nothing I can do, but hold space for the human she was and who she is becoming.

This tree, this stage of life, this little girl with a teacup full of petals…none of it will stay just like this for long. And that’s what makes it so achingly beautiful to be her mother.

I didn’t have the kind of childhood I’m trying to give Waylin. It wasn’t all bad—but it wasn’t always happy, soft, or full of wonder. I want her to look back and see love in every memory. How it felt to be seen, to be heard, to be held. How it felt to be a kid, without the weight of the world pressing down too soon.

I say yes more often than I sometimes feel like I can. Not because I want to spoil her, but because I want her to know what enough feels like. Enough time, enough presence, enough love.

This is the long work of healing…taking what I didn’t get and choosing, day by day, to give it to her. Every parent, no matter how they grew up, has the power to create that.

I love you, Waylin.