When I First Saw You

There’s a moment in motherhood when you realize you are no longer living inside your child’s childhood. You’re watching it fade. This poem is about how quickly things change, the ache of watching childhood slip away, and the knowing that nothing true is ever really lost.

I wrote this after our weekend in Sea Ranch, CA. A place where nature does what it has always done. Soften. Steady. And heal. My girls and I returned to the beach and somewhere in between the waves and the wind, we found ourselves again. The rhythm of the ocean reset something deeper than thought.

The first time I saw you,
our eyes locked.

It felt ancient
and new
all at once.

Your fingers curled around mine
like you already knew
I was yours
and you were mine,
and we had agreed to this
long before we arrived here.

Your face was round like the moon.
Your blue eyes, deep as the ocean.

And something in me
went still.

As if the world paused.
I paid close attention.

That memory is still perfectly clear.

In those early days,
time moved differently.

Measured not in hours
but in breaths,
in rocking chairs,
in the soft weight of you
sleeping against my chest.

Then came the years
of small shoes by the door,
of sticky hands
and endless questions.

You built worlds
out of nothing.

A cardboard box
became a castle.
A stick
became a wand.
The backyard
a universe.

And I watched,
quietly in awe,
as you taught me again
how to see
that magic is everywhere.

Beauty is, too.

Elementary years arrived
with backpacks and lunchboxes,
spelling words and friendships,
tears over things
that felt so big
in such small bodies.

You began to step
just slightly away from me,
turning toward the world
with curiosity
and courage.

And I stood there
half proud,
half undone
learning the art
of letting go.

Somewhere along the way,
childhood
stopped being something we were in
and became something
we were leaving.

The toys disappeared
without announcement,
replaced by busy schedules,
by lives that stretched
far beyond the walls of home.

Now you come and go
like the tide.

Your days are stacked.
Your voices are stronger.

Your eyes still bright—
but different now.
Seeing more.
Carrying more.

And sometimes
I miss the little versions of you.

Not because I want to go back—
but because I didn’t know
those moments were already
becoming memories.

When that ache rises,
I take you to the ocean to remember.

We walk barefoot
across the sand,
the wind tangling our hair,
the rhythm of the waves
softening the edges of our days.

And for a moment
you are little again.

We build castles
with sand and stones.
We search for treasures
as if they are waiting
just for us.

And I see
the spark,
the imagination,
the part of you
that has never left.

And I realize
something:

I am raising you
to know how to return
to yourselves.

Again and again
and again.

So when the world feels heavy,
and your days feel too full,
and you forget
the magic that lives inside you—

come back to the water.

Feel your feet in the sand.
Breathe in the salty air.
Listen to the waves.

Let the rhythm of the Earth
bring you back to the part of you
that knows how to wonder,
imagine,
and be free.

And I will be here.
Always.

Not to lead,
not to follow,
but to walk beside you—

loving you
through every version
of who you become.

Leave a comment