“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.
And only now does it start to make sense.
You don’t 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 mornings that start too early and nights that feel too long, days that blur into routine, and moments you don’t yet recognize as memories.
This is the season people are talking about when they say you’ll 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 you can’t explain on a résumé.
It asks you to give up parts of yourself too.
Quiet mornings.
Uninterrupted workouts.
Time alone that used to feel earned.
The gym becomes optional.
Rest becomes fragmented.
“Me time” becomes a luxury 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’re 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 in such a simple, complete way.
This is life.
Not the milestones.
Not the photos.
This.
Messy days.
Short nights.
Trade-offs.
Weight you carry quietly.
Hard times, yes.
But deeply fulfilling ones.
And if you’re reading this as a parent feeling torn, depleted, or behind... hear this
You’re not failing.
You’re choosing.
Mental health in parenting is not about balance.
It’s 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’re doing well.
Keep going.
These years are finite.
Count the summers.
You don’t have many left.
Most of us only get about ten.
And they matter.
Right now.