Almost 8 years ago, I became a mother and kind of lost my shit. That is when I rediscovered my love of writing. Some people use knitting or cooking or Cross Fit to keep their shit intact. I write.

Eight years feels like nothing. Eight years feels like a million.

When was the last time my mom and I went shopping and she didn’t look so tired by the time we were done? When was the last time my youngest let me rock her to sleep? When did my 4-year-old start pronouncing “birthday” correctly?

When did I begin to get wrinkles around my eyes?

My husband and I have been married for over a decade. He has wrinkles around his eyes, too. I wonder when I first saw them.

Ten years feels like nothing. Ten years feels like a million.

I’ve written before about being in a season that seems never-endingly, suffocatingly difficult. But all things come to an end, right? They must, because my children are changing right in front of me, so quickly that I can’t pinpoint when it happened.

Everything ends.

That is the saddest, and yet most hopeful, phrase a mother can hear.

(If you liked this post, then you should follow me on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter!)