The Quiet Ache of Time… On slowing down, sacred ordinary moments, and how quickly everything becomes a memory.

Exhale.

A few weeks have passed since I last sat down to write. Life moved quickly—beautifully so—but in a way that felt almost weightless, as though the days were gliding past instead of landing. Between celebrating my daughter turning three, Christmas hosting, and the magic of Christmas morning with my two incredible children, everything blurred together in the softest, most sacred way. When I pause long enough to really look back, I can’t help but feel overwhelmed with gratitude.

Her birthday alone felt like a season of its own. Three years old—somehow both brand new and impossibly grown. We celebrated her in every way we could: Barbie’s and cake, special outings, and a weekend visit to the waterpark that left us exhausted, soaked, and laughing. Days filled with planning, packing, driving, celebrating—making sure she felt seen, adored, and wildly loved. It was joyful and busy and beautiful… and it reminded me how quickly these milestones arrive, how little time there is between just born and three already.

One of the greatest gifts of the season arrived when I least expected it. After a full day of baking on Christmas Eve Eve (because yes, that’s a thing in our house), my mother stood on my doorstep. I don’t have language big enough for what that moment did to me. I cried the kind of tears that come from deep within—the kind that release feelings you didn’t realize you’d been holding at bay. I had missed her in ways I hadn’t allowed myself to fully feel. Seeing her there, unannounced and real, felt like time folding in on itself—past and present colliding in the safest way.

This was our first year hosting Christmas Eve in our home, and there was something profoundly grounding about filling our space with love and laughter. While part of my heart ached for those who couldn’t be there, I chose gratitude for those who were. Time offers no guarantees. People come and go. Seasons change. All we ever truly have is now—and that night, now felt full.

My husband and I found joy in the quiet rituals: laying out the presents, hanging the stockings, setting aside the brownie made just for Santa. We left a small handwritten note before sending our elf Star back to the North Pole until next November. These moments may seem small, but I know one day they will be everything. Having my mother there when my children woke up on Christmas morning layered an already magical day with something deeper. My children adore her with a fierce, innocent love, and I know that memory will live in them long after they forget the toys.

The days that followed slowed us down in the gentlest way. Snow fell thick and steady, wrapping us in stillness. Pajamas became the uniform. Time stretched. We lingered in the ordinary—playing, laughing, watching my daughter swirl through the house in princess dresses as if the world existed only for her joy. I learned again what it means to savor.

At some point—quietly, almost without ceremony—we began taking the decorations down. The twinkle lights came off first, then the garlands, then the tree. The house shifted as each piece was packed away. What had felt so warm and full just days before now felt open… almost echoing.

But there was something beautiful in that too.

The rooms felt bigger. Lighter. I watched my kids dance through the newly opened spaces, spinning where the tree once stood, inventing games out of what remained. Their laughter filled the house in a different way—not loud with celebration, but soft with presence. It reminded me that the magic was never in the decorations. It was always in them.

My children played in the snow before shedding cold fingers and rosy cheeks to join me in the hot tub. As much as I treasure that space for myself, nothing compares to holding my babies while snowflakes melt into steaming water, their laughter rising into the winter air. Joy like that feels almost holy.

That week with my mother disappeared far too quickly. One moment she was there, and the next she wasn’t. I’ve never done well with goodbyes—especially when it comes to her. Distance has a way of making love feel heavier, more urgent. It’s a feeling I imagine many grandparents know well: loving from afar, pulled between places, hearts divided by miles. Explaining this to young children is never easy. But their difficulty in understanding is also a gift—it means their love runs deep.

This morning—after she left—I found myself noticing the smallest things.
The house hadn’t caught up yet, but my heart had.

My children are always close to me—we co-sleep—so true quiet doesn’t really exist in this season of life. But still, I find myself drawn to the window, watching the birds gather outside. Cardinals—so red they almost glow—moving between the feeders and the bird bath we recently added. We filled it with seed, along with the decorated ornament feeders the kids love to help hang.

When I watch them, something in me softens.

They feel like visitors from heaven—gentle reminders that I’m not alone, that something greater is always present. I slip into a meditative stillness as I watch them come and go, my breath slowing, my body relaxing. It’s grounding. Regulating. A quiet kind of peace that settles deep.

I keep adding more feeders lately. Almost instinctively. As if I’m trying to create more moments like these. And then it hit me—this love didn’t start with me.

When I was a child, I spent most days at my grandparents’ house, and we would always break the bread. Their yard was full of feeders, most handmade by my grandfather. He was endlessly inventing clever ways to care for the birds, watching from the window with quiet pride.

Afterward, we’d head to the local deli, where large brown paper bags of stale rolls were already set aside for my grandmother—bags that felt almost as tall as I was back then. We’d tear the bread into pieces and scatter it across the yard. The birds were always waiting.

And my mom—she once bought four super-sized fries from McDonald’s, not just for us, but just to throw to the birds in the parking lot. That memory has stayed with me my entire life.

So now, when I watch the cardinals flutter against the snow, I realize this love was passed down.
In breadcrumbs.
In birdseed.
In quiet moments that still live inside me.

And threaded through all of this joy is grief—quiet, constant, and familiar. I miss my father more than words can carry. He loved these children with every piece of his heart and was taken from us far too soon. He wanted to be part of everything, even if it meant watching through a screen. He would sit and watch them open each and every present, smiling wide, fully present. I feel him most at Christmas. In the pauses. In the in-between. In the knowing.

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about how fast time moves. Maybe it always has—but now, especially in motherhood, it feels like everything is rushing by.

I don’t want to rush through their childhood.
I don’t want to rush through my own life.

It’s become essential to pause. To make space for moments that calm my nervous system and bring clarity. The kind of stillness that reminds me who I am beneath the noise, beneath the lists, beneath the doing. Because the fast-paced lifestyle we’re all living? It isn’t normal—for our bodies, our minds, or our hearts.

There are days I envy cultures that live more slowly. That pause for long meals. That make room for rest and community without guilt. That honor time instead of racing against it.

This week, Mother Nature forced that pause for us. Snow fell, plans canceled, and suddenly there was nowhere to rush. Barely a reason to get dressed. Just visiting, loving, laughing. I found myself wishing for more days like that—because I think we all need them more than we admit.

Still, the urge to fill time is something I wrestle with constantly. There’s always a list humming in the background of my mind, and the moment space opens, I want to leap into it. It takes intention—and sometimes my husband gently stopping me—to remember it’s okay to rest. To simply exist in the goodness of a day with nothing urgent demanding attention.

And so I choose slow.
I choose still.

I choose to sit with a warm cup of tea cradled in my hands, steam rising gently, grounding me in the present moment. I choose to write not to produce, not to perform—but because it feels like breathing. Because it reminds me that I am here. That this moment matters.

Time feels impossibly fragile lately. Like something I can sense slipping even as I try to hold it. Days move fast. Years move faster. And somehow, without warning, the things we swear just began are already memories we’re trying to recall clearly.

I look at my children and feel it all at once—the love, the awe, the ache. I know that one day I will long for the weight of them beside me, for the way their laughter fills a room, for the chaos I sometimes wish away. I know that this season—this exact version of life—will never come again.

Time doesn’t pause.
It doesn’t wait for us to be ready.
It doesn’t slow because we ask it to.

All it asks is that we notice.

That we stay.
That we feel.
That we choose presence over rush, connection over distraction, love over hurry.

Because one day we will look back and realize that what felt ordinary was sacred. That the moments we almost rushed through were the ones that mattered most.

So I sit here.
With my tea.
With my breath.
With my heart wide open to the fleetingness of it all.

Because this—
right now—
is time passing.

And this—
right here—
is everything.