Why Holding My Child Taught Me More About Love Than Anything Else and How It made Me Cry

The Unforgettable Hug That Reminded Me What Motherhood Is All About

Motherhood is full of fleeting moments, but tonight, one of those moments took my breath away.

This evening, something so simple yet deeply profound happened with Clover. After getting her ready for bed, normally she’d wriggle and giggle, burning off the last bit of her energy. But tonight, something was different. As soon as I zipped her onesie, she threw herself into my lap, her tiny arms and legs wrapping around me with a grip that said, "I'm home." Her tiny fingers gripping my shirt like she never wanted to let go. She made those little happy noises, the ones that hit your heart like a gentle melody you never want to forget.

We hugged, and as always, I let her be the one to release first. But tonight? Ten minutes turned into twenty. Twenty became thirty. And then, her little arms started to loosen. She fell asleep right there, nestled so perfectly in my arms. Blissful. At peace. It’s a strange kind of joy—watching her become more independent, knowing that each new step she takes toward the world is a step away from me. I want her to have the world, but sometimes I just want to hold on a little longer.

As I held her, tears welled up. A tidal wave of emotions hit me—bliss, joy, grief, and sadness. I felt every sensation, the tickle of her soft hair against my chin, the steady rhythm of her breath, her tiny heartbeat pulsing in sync with mine. Her hand, one resting on my shirt, the other gently cupping my cheek, as if she could feel the love pouring out of me.

This sacred moment, the weight of her trust, the warmth of her body surrendering into mine—it was as if time stood still. And yet, deep inside, there was the soft ache of knowing these moments are fleeting. One day, she might not remember these hugs, but I hope she carries their warmth—that she’s always safe, loved, and has a home in my arms, no matter how far she goes. She will grow, each day needing me a little less. I already find myself grieving the future, as I hold her in the present. How did we get here so fast? I blinked, and the newborn who once fit perfectly in the crook of my arm is now exploring the world with endless curiosity. Every step she takes feels like a gift and a goodbye all at once.

These moments, the ones that hit you out of nowhere, are the ones that matter most. We get so wrapped up in the hustle of life, sometimes we forget to stop, breathe, and just be in these sacred moments of motherhood. Never take them for granted. Never rush them.

Maybe you’ve felt this too—those quiet moments that sneak up on you, reminding you of how much love and responsibility you hold. The weight of it, the beauty of it, all at once. I know I’m not the only mom who feels this way. We all get so caught up in the day-to-day chaos that it’s easy to miss these moments—or to feel guilty for not appreciating them enough. But this isn’t about guilt; it’s about grace. As mothers, it’s so easy to get lost in our struggles, our own grief, our battles. But we must remember that our children are not here to carry those burdens for us. They are here for us to support, guide, and love through thick and thin. To be their safe place, their constant in a world full of change. To raise them in love, never burdening them with our own unresolved pain.

Let them fly, but always be their soft landing. Be there in their joy, in their sorrow, without judgment, only love. We’re not perfect, but we can offer them that—the space to grow, to thrive, and to be themselves without the weight of our own fears holding them back.

Clover is part of me, my soul living outside of my body, and I am here to witness her journey in awe. In these moments of stillness, in the sacred bond of mother and child, I am reminded: these moments are gifts—precious and fleeting. Savor them. Embrace every hug, every sleepy sigh, every tender moment, because they are the heartbeat of what truly matters.

So tonight, I want to remind you—and myself—of this: hold them a little longer. Let the dishes sit, ignore the emails, and soak in these moments. Hug them close. Breathe them in. These are the moments that will carry us when the house is quiet, and their laughter has grown distant.

xox, Dru