Today my husband, my four-year-old daughter, and I were sitting on the couch looking through old baby pictures. We were laughing at how tiny she was, remembering little stories we’d completely forgotten, smiling at all the different versions of her we’ve gotten to know over the last four years.

I don’t spend much time looking back at her first year. I think, if I’m honest, I avoid it. I was so anxious and depressed during that season that I almost feel disconnected from it now. Of course I loved her. I loved her more than anything. But I didn’t love that stage of motherhood. I wasn’t someone who thrived with a baby. The sleepless nights, the constant needs, the isolation… I was surviving. So when she grew out of that phase, I didn’t feel grief. I felt relief.

But today something shifted.

As we were looking at those pictures, I realized that four years from now we’ll probably be sitting somewhere doing this exact same thing. Looking back at pictures from today. Pictures from this season. The season that I love. The preschool years. The toddler years. The endless questions. The jokes that make absolutely no sense but somehow make me laugh every single time. The mornings spent reading books together in our comfy corner. The little homeschool lessons where I watch something click in her brain for the very first time. The spontaneous Monday trips to the zoo because that’s one of the gifts of the life we’ve built.

Nothing spectacular. Just our ordinary life.

And I think that’s what made me emotional. Because these days don’t feel big while they’re happening. They feel normal. Sometimes they even feel repetitive. Sometimes I’m counting down until bedtime. Sometimes I’m distracted by work or laundry or dinner or the thousand things pulling at my attention. But one day, these will be the pictures I wish I could step back into.

Four years from now she’ll be eight. Eight. That feels impossible to even write. She’ll be a big kid. She’ll probably have friends she’d rather spend time with than me some days. She won’t ask me to read the same book four times in a row. She won’t mispronounce words the same way. She won’t tell me every single thought that enters her mind. She’ll still need me, but she’ll need me differently.

And because she’s our only child, when this chapter ends, it ends forever. There isn’t another little one coming behind her. There isn’t another chance to experience these years again. I think that’s what makes it hurt so much. Not because anything bad is happening, but because something beautiful is quietly slipping through my fingers every single day.

The strange thing about life is that we almost never know we’re living “the good old days” until they’ve already become memories.

Looking at those baby pictures also made me realize something else. I’ve changed just as much as she has. Four years ago Serene Moms didn’t exist. This spiritual side of me hadn’t really awakened yet. I was still working part time in corporate. I was still in my twenties. I had no idea I’d build a global community for spiritual motherhood. I had no idea I’d host retreats. I had no idea how much motherhood would reshape me. That version of me feels familiar, but she also feels like someone I’ll never be again.

And it made me wonder who I’ll be four years from today.

I honestly have no idea. I don’t know where we’ll live. I don’t know how big Serene Moms will become. I don’t know how many more mothers will find this community, how many retreats we’ll have hosted, or what dreams I’ll be chasing. I just know everything will be different because everything always is.

Every month our community grows. New mothers join from places I never imagined. Women who were strangers become real friends. They meet each other, travel together, support each other through the hardest seasons of motherhood. Every day my daughter becomes a little older. Every day my marriage changes in tiny ways. Every year I become someone I couldn’t have imagined being before. Change is happening all around us all the time. Sometimes so slowly we don’t even notice it until we stumble across an old photograph.

I think that’s why made me so emotional. Not because I want to go backward. I don’t. I love who we’ve become. I love the life we’re building. I love the woman I’m growing into. I’m excited to meet the eight-year-old version of my daughter, and I’m excited to meet the future version of myself too. But I think two things can exist at once. You can be incredibly excited for what’s ahead while grieving what you’re slowly leaving behind. Those feelings don’t cancel each other out. They make each other more meaningful.

More than anything, I hope I’m paying enough attention. I hope I’m not so busy building tomorrow that I accidentally miss today. I’m tired. Every single day I’m tired. Some days motherhood feels magical. Some days it feels relentless. Some days I’m fully present. Other days I’m answering emails while half listening to a story I’ve heard twenty times already. I’m human.

But I hope the exhaustion doesn’t steal this season from me. I hope I remember that these ordinary afternoons are actually the memories I’m going to treasure someday. The books on the floor. The little shoes by the door. The random hugs. The endless questions. The zoo trips. The laughter echoing through the house. One day those things won’t be my everyday anymore. They’ll just be photographs.

Maybe that’s what life really is. Falling in love with people who never stop changing. Falling in love with seasons we were never meant to keep.

Learning, over and over again, that the most ordinary moments often become the ones we spend the rest of our lives wishing we could visit just one more time.