They don’t tell you that motherhood is a series of goodbyes no one prepares you for.
Not the kind with tears and suitcases or final hugs in an airport terminal.
These goodbyes are quieter. Softer.
They slip in when you’re folding laundry or pouring cereal.
One day, the baby that curled perfectly on your chest doesn’t fit there anymore.
One day, the toddler with food-smeared cheeks starts asking for their own napkin.
One day, the little voice calling “Mama!” down the hallway is suddenly deeper, or more distracted, or too busy to call at all.
And you never noticed the last time they did it.
Because you didn’t know it was the last.
No one tells you how much it aches to love someone who is constantly changing.
To hold them in all their stages and not realize a version of them has quietly slipped away—
until you’re searching your memories for it.
Until you’re replaying their giggle, the way their little hand used to fit in yours, the silly made-up phrases they’ve since forgotten.
And even though you love who they are now with all your being—
you find yourself missing who they were then, too.
It’s not about wanting time to freeze.
It’s just that motherhood asks you to open your heart again and again…
to someone new,
while grieving the one who just left.
And the hardest part of all…
You never get to say goodbye.
Have you felt this too?
Is there a version of your child you still miss — a phase that slipped away before you realized it was the last?
I’d love to hear your story, your memory, your moment.
Let’s hold space together for all the versions we’ve loved. I’d be honored to read you in the comments 🩵.
Of Crumbs & Cuddles 