This morning, I looked outside and saw my son standing near our flower garden.

My first thought wasn't exactly calm. The thorns.

I knew he shouldn't have been over there, and I was already preparing myself to remind him to be careful.

Then I watched him pick a flower.

Instead of running off to play, he turned around and walked straight toward the house.

As he reached the door, our dog, Max, started sniffing intently at his little hands, curious about what he was carrying.

My son pulled his hands closer and said, "No, Maxi. This is for Mama."

Then he opened the door, walked right up to me, and held out the flower.

"Here you go. I picked this for you."

And just like that, my heart melted.

Maybe that's what makes moments like this so special—flowers aren't an everyday occurrence in our house, yet whenever he sees one, he thinks of me.

Whether it's a dandelion growing through a crack in the sidewalk, a wildflower on a walk, or a flower from our garden, he always wants to bring it home to me.

No special occasion.
No reason other than love.

I find myself wondering where children learn things like this.

Maybe they simply notice more than we realize—what makes us smile, what we stop to admire, the little things that bring us joy.

Or maybe love, when it's nurtured, naturally overflows.

The flower is already beginning to wilt, but I know I'll remember this moment for years.

The way Max sniffed eagerly at his hands.
The way he protected the flower.
The way he walked directly to me with such purpose.
The way he said, "This is for Mama."

Sometimes motherhood feels big and overwhelming.

And sometimes it feels like this:

A little boy, a flower, and the quiet reminder that love often arrives in the smallest hands.

Today, I sat at the dining table writing while my son cried in his room.

I don't even know why he was crying anymore. Maybe he was frustrated. Maybe he was tired. Maybe I was too.

I sat there because I needed a moment—a small pause before I let one hard moment turn into a hard day.

Motherhood can feel like that sometimes.

You're plugging on. Holding on. Trying.

Trying to keep everyone fed. Trying to stick to schedules. Trying to manage tantrums and emotions—your child's and your own. Trying not to lose control when it feels like the day already has.

We make plans and routines because we're trying to create some sense of order, but life with children isn't something we can control completely.

Maybe we're not trying to control life.

Maybe we're just trying to make it through the day.

People often say, "You can't pour from an empty cup."

And yet, mothers do it every day.

We pour into our children, our partners, our homes, and our endless lists of things that need to be remembered and done. We schedule appointments, plan meals, wash clothes, clean kitchens, soothe big feelings, and carry the invisible work of holding a family together.

Then somewhere along the way, we're expected to take care of ourselves too.

Sometimes self-care feels like another task on the list—a task we rarely get to.

If I'm honest, I hardly do it.

Most days, I don't get dressed. My hair stays undone. I put myself last because it feels easier than trying to fit one more thing into an already full day.

No one is asking me to disappear, but somewhere between being a good mom and a good wife, I've forgotten how to show up for myself.

And that's the hard truth: no one else can do that for me.

Yes, I have a wonderful husband. But he can't be responsible for my relationship with myself.

Only I can choose to show up for Christina.

Not perfectly. Not all at once.

Just little by little.

Because there's another part of me that's still here—the creative part.

She calls to me every day.

Ideas arrive suddenly and vividly. I feel them like a spark, like a fire ready to come back to life.

But I push them away.

Not because I don't love creating, but because creating feels different now. I compare myself to who I was before motherhood, before my days belonged to someone else too.

I miss that version of me sometimes.

But maybe I'm not meant to go back to her.

Maybe the goal isn't to find the Christina I used to be.

Maybe it's to make space for the Christina I'm becoming.

The creative part of me didn't disappear when I became a mother.

She just needs care too.

Maybe self-care isn't always bubble baths and long mornings alone.

Maybe it's getting dressed.

Maybe it's making the tea.

Maybe it's opening the sketchbook for ten minutes.

Maybe it's sitting at the dining table, writing down the thoughts that feel too heavy to carry alone.

Because at the end of the day, I am still the creator of my story.

And I'm learning that taking care of myself isn't selfish.

It's how I keep creating a life I want to be present for.

Some moments are spontaneous.

Others are gently arranged — not to make them something they aren’t, but to make sure they’re remembered.

We were in his room — a familiar, everyday space. I wanted to document it with care. Him walking away. Walking back toward me. Reaching out with whatever he happened to be holding. Moments paused long enough to be noticed. Memories distilled into lines.

Illustration allows me to keep what mattered — not to recreate the past, but to honor the growth within it.

He was just over a year old. Only by a few days.

I had noticed how much stronger he had become. How comfortable he was moving on his own. So I asked my husband to take photos of us together — interacting the way we always do. I wanted to capture this stage clearly, knowing how quickly it passes.

From that set of images, one stayed with me.

He’s standing in front of me, handing me a wooden block. A small, ordinary exchange — and yet it held so much of who he was becoming, and who I was becoming alongside him.

When I returned to the image, I illustrated the moment the way I always do — reducing it to its essentials: gesture, proximity, connection. The flowers beneath us represent growth — quiet, steady, unfolding — a visual way of holding the season we were in.

These illustrated stories are artifacts of my life. They are fragments of motherhood.

Photography shows me what happened.

This piece holds the memory of him learning to walk — and me learning how fleeting these early days are. How even the moments we carefully document eventually become something we reach for later.

This is the work I return to.

Not to recreate the past,

but to hold what it taught me.

The air was different that year.

Crisper, quieter. As if the world had exhaled and made room for something — someone — new.

It was October 2022. My son was eight months old — soft-cheeked, wide-eyed, and just beginning to sit up on his own. That weekend, we bundled up and drove to Soergel Orchards for what would become his first fall event — our very first family outing of the season.

He wasn’t walking yet. He didn’t know what a pumpkin was. But it was the first time we stepped outside the house together to celebrate fall as a family — the start of a tradition we didn’t yet know would continue for years to come.

That day, the wind carried the scent of cider and hay. Families bustled past us with wagonloads of gourds, but for me, everything slowed down the moment I saw him sitting among the pumpkins — completely still, bathed in the golden glow of a late afternoon sun.

I remember thinking: This is what it means to witness wonder.

The Original Plan

When I first started thinking about this blog post, my plan was to create a series of four illustrations — one for each fall we’ve spent together at the orchard. A visual journey of growth, tradition, and love.

But like most creative plans made in the margins of motherhood, time and energy had other ideas.

So instead of pushing through ten unfinished ideas, I chose to slow down — to honor the first fall experience that mattered. The one where it all began — not just for him, but for us as a family.

This is that moment, remembered in lines and light.

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The Smell of That Season

The orchard smelled like toasted sugar and crisp leaves, damp earth, and something baked just out of reach. We wandered through rows of pumpkins and produce, warm drinks in hand, layers of clothing wrapped around our new-parent nerves.

He sat in the grass between pumpkins, running his hands across the smooth orange skin, tapping them like little drums. Curious. Focused. Taking it all in.

The softness of his sweater mixed with the orchard’s warmth made him smell like fall itself. That scent still lives in his tiny clothes tucked in a keepsake bin — the ones I can’t quite bring myself to store too far away.

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The Sounds That Stay

Leaves crunching under stroller wheels. Distant chatter. The thump of pumpkins being dropped into bins. The hum of weekend energy.

He didn’t laugh much — not in the wild, giggling way toddlers do now. But he made sounds of discovery. Little coos and “mmm”s as he touched each new texture. His palms against the pumpkins. His fingers crunching a leaf. The soft pat of his hand on hay.

That quiet exploration felt like his way of saying, I’m here. I’m part of this too.

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The Colors I Carry

Burnt orange pumpkins. Dusty yellow mums. His olive-green jacket and those chubby pink cheeks that glowed against the chill.

That day painted itself into my memory like a scene I’d want to revisit over and over. And we did. Every fall since, we’ve returned to Soergel Orchards — walking the same rows, picking pumpkins side by side, chasing after a boy who now runs ahead, full of opinions and excitement.

It became our fall tradition — rooted in that very first trip, when he was too small to know what a tradition was.

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Memory in Lines and Light

I didn’t create four illustrations. I created one.

But sometimes, one is enough.

A single moment of stillness — he surrounded by leaves and pumpkins, sunlight slipping through the orchard trees. I didn’t try to replicate the photo exactly. I wasn’t chasing likeness. I was chasing feeling — and I found it in soft lines, warm tones, and the quiet emotion of that memory.

(Insert illustration here)

Dear Christina,

Another birthday has come, and this one felt different. Not because of candles or cake, but because of the mirror you had to face—both the one hanging on your wall and the one life held up to you.

This year, you struggled. More than you expected. Your body felt unfamiliar, your confidence slipped away, and your spark seemed to vanish somewhere between messy hair, tired days, and pouring yourself endlessly into your son and husband. You stopped creating. You stopped planning. And on your birthday—the one day meant for celebration—you felt the lowest you ever had.

You didn’t get dressed up. You didn’t do your makeup or your hair. You went shopping with a gift card you were blessed with, only to find that most of the clothes you tried on didn’t fit the way you wanted them to. You stood in the mirror, ashamed, wondering who was staring back. For a moment, you longed for the birthdays before motherhood—the trips, the confidence, the feeling that you had it all together. And you felt the ache of knowing that this time, you didn’t.

But here’s the truth you’re learning: even in your lowest seasons, you are still growing. Even if it feels slow. Even if it feels invisible. Growth doesn’t always look like milestones, travels, or fancy photoshoots. Sometimes, it looks like survival. Sometimes, it looks like recognizing when your thoughts are pulling you down and choosing—no matter how heavy—to rise again.

This week, you decided something needed to change. No more hiding. No more skipping out on celebrating yourself. No more waiting until you feel “ready.” You are worthy of being seen now.

So you made a promise: to show up for yourself. To find an outfit that makes you feel good in your body. To fix your hair, to stand in front of the camera, and to take the photos—not for anyone else, not even for Instagram, but for you. To remind yourself that you exist outside of your roles. That you matter. That your spark may be dim, but it is not gone.

Dear Christina, this birthday didn’t feel like magic, but maybe that’s the gift. Because sometimes the most important turning points come quietly, wrapped not in ribbons but in honesty. You are allowed to be both a devoted mother and a woman who deserves care. You are allowed to take up space, even when it feels uncomfortable. You are allowed to see yourself again.

This year, your gift isn’t a perfect photoshoot, a trip, or a party. It’s this: the decision to keep going. The decision to choose yourself again, even slowly. The decision to believe that joy and confidence can return.

Maybe the spark isn’t gone—it’s just waiting for you to nurture it back to life. And that, Christina, will be the light you carry into this new year.

With love,

Me

"We Grow Together" – A Reflection on Motherhood, Growth, and Love