Lately, I’ve been scrolling through old pictures of my boys — frosting on their cheeks from birthday cakes, leaves tangled in their hair, wide smiles that could light up any room. Every photo takes me back to a time when they were my whole world… and I was theirs.
I went all out for them. Every birthday party was a production — handmade decorations, treasure hunts, themed cakes, and laughter that filled the house. I sat through three-hour gymnastics practices just because I loved watching them. I volunteered in their classrooms, chaperoned field trips, and planned what I called Super Saturdays — days that didn’t cost much, because money was tight, but I wanted them to feel like life was still an adventure. We’d go to the movies and share one big bucket of popcorn, laughing like it was the best day ever.
Those memories used to make my heart feel full. Now, they ache.
We used to play charades before bed, read together under blankets, walk to and from school, bake cookies until the kitchen looked like it had snowed flour, ride bikes to the park, go to Disneyland, and play endless games of Monopoly during the summers. I gave them everything I had — my time, my energy, my heart.
But somewhere along the way, that love stopped being enough. The closeness faded. The laughter went quiet. They don’t remember the mom who made life magical — only the moments where I fell short. They look for the cracks instead of the warmth. And it breaks me in ways I can’t even describe.
For a long time, I tried to fix it. I kept reaching out, explaining, apologizing, hoping. But love can’t survive when it only flows one way. And I’ve realized… I can’t keep breaking my heart over and over trying to earn something that used to be freely given.
So, I’m letting go.
Not because I don’t love them — I always will — but because holding on is destroying me. Sometimes giving up isn’t weakness; it’s mercy. It’s allowing yourself to breathe again after years of gasping for something that’s no longer there.
Maybe one day they’ll remember the good — the popcorn, the laughter, the bedtime games, the way I showed up for everything. Maybe they’ll see how much I loved them in every little thing I did. But even if they don’t, I have to move forward.
I’m praying every day that they find happiness, peace, and real joy in their lives. That they build strong, loving relationships and live full, beautiful stories of their own. Even if I’m no longer part of their everyday world, I’ll always be cheering them on from the sidelines — quietly, faithfully, and with all the love a mother’s heart can hold.
Because my love for them will always exist — but it can’t be the thing that keeps me stuck in pain.
Sometimes, letting go is the bravest act of love left.
And even now — even through the heartbreak — I still believe there’s hope after the storm.
Maybe God is holding them now the way I used to.
And maybe, for this season… that’s enough.
Leave a comment