There’s a kind of grief in motherhood that no one really talks about. It’s not the loud kind- not the kind that brings casseroles or condolences. It’s quiet. Lingering. It slips into the background of your happiest days. It lives right next to joy. Right next to gratitude.
It’s the grief of knowing it’s all passing.
The grief of watching your children grow.
I feel it most in the little things.
The way my toddler Chloe still mispronounces certain words.
The way her developing voice still has the hallmark pitch of a little child, and how adorable she sounds whether she is speaking in English, Cantonese, Mandarin, or a mixture of all 3.
The way I have to bend down to understand her, like we’re sharing a secret.
The way she reaches up for me- without hesitation, without words, just trust.
The way her innocent and brilliant mind works, how she can easily discern what is 乖 and what is 不乖, even when she is doing 不乖 things herself.
And I know… soon, these moments will fade. She’ll grow. She should grow. That’s the point.
But there’s a sadness in knowing I won’t live these stages again.
I won’t have another baby to rock in the middle of the night.
I won’t get to guess another toddler’s invented language.
Chloe is it. My youngest. My last.
And Olivia, my oldest, she’s already stretching out—longer legs, more independence, fewer requests to be held, new questions that show me she’s watching the world more closely now.
The questions are no longer just about colors and animals. They’re about people. Why some people are mean. Why everyone doesn’t always get along.
And I want to protect her.
I want the world to stay sunshine and butterflies, like it is in her drawings.
But I know she’ll see the shadows too.
She’ll learn that not every bad guy gets caught. That not every good guy saves the day. That in some stories, the good guys don’t even exist.
And it hurts. Even though I know it’s necessary. Even though I know she’s strong.
This is where grief meets gratitude in motherhood.
Because I am grateful—beyond words. I look at my girls and my heart could burst. I don’t want more than this. And yet… sometimes, I do. Not because what I have isn’t enough, but because I want to stretch this chapter just a little longer.
I want to live inside the magic for just a few more minutes.
Motherhood teaches you that two things can be true at once.
You can be wildly grateful and still deeply sad.
You can feel complete and mourn the baby you’ll never have.
You can cheer your children on as they grow… while silently wishing you could freeze time.
But maybe the point isn’t to hold on forever.
Maybe the point is to be here fully—to soak in the sweetness before it passes.
To say “yes” to one more story. One more cuddle. One more “I Love You!” kiss before you leave their bedroom.
That’s how I’m learning to hold both grief and gratitude in the same hand.
Not fighting the passing of time, but walking with it.
Not numbing the sadness, but letting it remind me: this matters.
This is love.
Leave a Reply