01/30/2026
Lately I feel like I’m living inside a series of quiet “lasts.”
My youngest son starts kindergarten next year, and he is our last baby.
I find myself feeling a twinge of sadness as I'm putting away clothes I know no one will ever wear again.
Watching his toddler cheeks slowly disappear as he looks more and more like a kid.
Not a baby. Not even really a toddler anymore.
And I catch myself wondering…
When will be the last time I carry him just because I can?
No one warns you how silent these transitions are. There’s no announcement. No final chapter. Just one day you realize a season ended and you didn’t know you were in the last pages of it.
We tell ourselves we’ll remember everything. But memories fade. They keep the feeling and loses the details. The weight of them in your arms. The shape of their face. The way they fit into your life exactly as they were in that moment.
That’s why photos matter to so much to me.
Not for perfection.
For proof that this version of your life existed.
That this season was real and that you were here together.
