Older people used to tell me this all the time.
“Enjoy it while it lasts.”
“Blink and it’s gone.”
“You’ll miss this one day.”
I smiled.
I nodded.
I didn’t really understand.
Only now does it make sense.
You do not have decades with your child
the way you think you do.
You have a handful of years
when they still reach for your hand without thinking.
When play happens on the floor, not on a screen.
When bedtime means one more story,
and one more,
and one more.
You have a few summers
where scraped knees are cured by your presence.
Where laughter is loud and uncomplicated.
Where they run toward you, not ahead of you.
You have early mornings and long nights.
Days that blur into routine.
Moments you do not yet recognize as memories.
This is the season people mean
when they say you will miss it.
Count the summers.
Before the baby becomes a toddler.
Before the toddler becomes a child.
Before the child becomes a teenager
who no longer calls your name the same way.
The window is smaller than we admit.
And this season is not gentle.
It asks you to slow down
in a world that rewards speed.
To turn down opportunities
you worked hard to earn.
To accept that your career may plateau
while something else quietly takes priority.
It asks you to be away for work
while wishing you were home for bedtime.
To sit in meetings
while thinking about missed moments.
To measure success
in absences no résumé can explain.
It asks you to give up parts of yourself.
Quiet mornings.
Uninterrupted workouts.
Unclaimed time.
The gym becomes optional.
Rest becomes fragmented.
“Me time” becomes something
you schedule weeks in advance.
Some days feel like loss.
Not because you regret it.
But because sacrifice,
even when chosen,
still hurts.
So when your child calls you,
even when you are exhausted,
even when your mind is elsewhere,
Pause.
Many people would give anything
to return to that moment.
To hear that voice again.
To be needed so simply,
so completely.
This is life.
Not the milestones.
Not the photos.
This.
Messy days.
Short nights.
Trade-offs.
Quiet weight you carry.
Hard, yes.
But deeply meaningful.
And if you are reading this
feeling torn, depleted, or behind,
Hear this:
You are not failing.
You are choosing.
Mental health in parenting
is not about balance.
It is about permission.
Permission to be imperfect.
Permission to let some things wait.
So, fellow parent,
if today felt heavy
but you still showed up,
You are doing well.
Keep going.
These years are finite.
Count the summers.
Most of us only get about ten.
And they matter.
Right now.