The Bittersweet Beauty of Letting Them Grow

Fourteen years ago, my youngest son Danny drew this picture of me. He was four years old. In his eyes, I was surrounded by flowers, framed in pink, with little hearts and careful letters spelling out “MAMA.” It looked like a shrine—his way of honoring something sacred. At the time, I laughed and loved it.

Today, I love it more.

This Mother’s Day, I’m flying home from a whirlwind weekend in Florida, where we celebrated not one but two college graduations. Now other kids are driving back north, and still others are spending this day with their own growing families.

I feel it all at once—the fullness and the ache.

At commencement yesterday, my son Stephen sat in the front row in his cap and gown. I saw his eyes search the crowd, and when they landed on mine, a grin spread across his face. My mind flashed back to little league baseball games where he would look for me every time he stepped up to bat. When he found me in the bleachers, he would give me that same grin. All was well. Mama was there.

So much has changed, but I’m still here.

Being a mother means pouring yourself out completely, and then doing it again. And a few more times after that. Whatever they need. It means watching tiny hands learn to draw hearts, and later watching those same hands pack bags, receive diplomas, wear wedding rings, and cradle babies of their own.

To all the mothers today—new, seasoned, grieving, waiting, celebrating—this day is for you. For the shrine your children build in crayon and in memory. For the quiet sacrifices no one sees. For being present. With a fierce, tender love that never ends.

Happy Mother’s Day. 💮