The growing up of my youngest has hit me the hardest in some ways, as I know these are the “last lasts” we are experiencing together. The speed at which it happened has all but swept my feet out from under me. The boy that was at my side for 11 years has found sure footing as he ventures and explores for himself, and discovers there is a whole world in which he feels confident and excited for. My heart smiles to see him enjoying the days with so much maturity, feeling safe to wander farther and do more with his growing tribe.
In the ticking hours that I’m alone though, there is a subtle, yet deep ache as my days of motherhood fold up quiet. I laid in the swing today, drinking in the perfect temperature and watching the shadows dance with the sunlight. It occurred to me why I feel like I’m carrying grief in this season. It’s the lie of rejection whispering scorch-hot that because I am no longer needed in the same ways, I am no longer needed at all.
It tells me that as his world expands, my place in it shrinks into irrelevance. But as the wind stirred the trees above me, God gently reminded my heart of a deeper truth; transition is not rejection, and release is not loss.
For years my arms have been a safe harbor; the primary point of reference. But motherhood in this season isn’t about clinging tightly to keep them close; it’s about learning how to love them from a beautiful, prayerful distance.
The grief I feel isn’t a sign that I’ve failed or that I’m being left behind—it’s simply the sacred price of a love that did its job well. We pray for our children to be confident, faithful, and independent. When those prayers are answered, the quiet room left in their wake can feel heavy, but it is also holy ground.
As I learn to rest in this next chapter I know that God isn’t done writing the story of my growing littles, and He certainly isn’t done writing mine. The God who held me through sleepless toddler nights and busy childhood years is the same God who holds my quiet hours now.
When the silence feels too loud and the ache creeps in, I can bring those heavy feelings to the One who understands holy transitions. I can grieve the grace of the past without fearing the future. It is okay to weep for the little boys and girls who held my hand while simultaneously thanking God for the young adults stepping into the sun.
Have you found yourself on the surprisingly lonesome road of motherhood as your children run ahead to take flight? We can trust Him with the “last lasts.” Every finished chapter in motherhood opens the door for God to reveal something new in us. The hours may feel quieter, and the days may fold up soft, but a mother’s heart remains their home anchor—no matter how far their feet wander.
Choosing Hope 