Seven Years of Us
Today, my little girl turns seven.
Seven years of love, laughter, learning, and letting go. Seven years of holding her hand while learning to unclench my own.
She is my quiet one; my gentle observer in a loud world. The one who sees things most people miss. The one who can read the room before anyone says a word. Her intuition and empathy are her superpowers, wrapped up in freckles and soft giggles.
She’s the heart of our family; steady, kind, fiercely loving. The one who tells me she loves me “more than stars in the sky.” She means it, too. Her love isn’t loud; it’s steadfast. It shows up in the extra hug, the bedtime whisper, the way she reaches for my hand without saying a word.
She loves horses; her happy place smells like hay and fresh air. She’s grown so much caring for them: brushing their coats, feeding them, learning patience and responsibility. There’s something sacred in watching her find calm in the quiet rhythm of it all. Maybe that’s why I love it so much too, the stillness of it. The reminder that peace doesn’t have to be earned; it can simply be found.
She’s the one who likes to stay home with me, tucked into our little routines. We leave the big adventures to her dad and her sister, the ones who run fast, climb high, and live loud. My “star” has always been the one who finds magic in the small things. The slow mornings. The shared blanket. The songs we’ve sung a thousand times.
Our lullabies. Our three-hand squeeze. Our unspoken understanding.
Raising Her While Raising Me
Every year on her birthday, I can’t help but think; she’s seven, which means I’m a seven-year-old mom. I’ve only been doing this for as long as she’s been here. I’m still figuring it out, fumbling through lessons I didn’t know I’d need.
I thought parenting would be about teaching her. Turns out, she’s been the one teaching me.
She’s taught me to slow down. To notice the world in smaller ways, the color of the sunset, the rhythm of hooves on dirt, the way laughter softens a hard day.
She’s taught me that being sensitive is not the same as being fragile. That strength can look like softness, and love doesn’t need to shout to be heard. She’s taught me that independence and closeness can coexist, that I can raise her to not need me, and still be grateful every time she reaches for me.
I used to think I had to get it right all the time: the perfect routines, the calm responses, the Pinterest-ready memories. But the truth is, the best moments have been the messy ones: the late-night talks, the tearful apologies, the quiet drives home after a long day. Those are the moments where real connection happens, where I learn her, and she learns me.
Seven Years of Learning
Seven years of learning that motherhood is not a test to pass. It’s a relationship to nurture, one that grows as we do.
She’s becoming her own person; strong, grounded, full of light and I’m becoming someone new, too. Someone who’s learning to slow down, to listen better, to savor the ordinary.
I’m raising her, but I’m also raising myself into a softer, steadier, more present version of me.
Tomorrow, she’ll wake up one year older. And I’ll wake up one year wiser not because I’ve mastered motherhood, but because she keeps showing me how to do it differently.
To love deeper. To rest when I can. To laugh louder. To keep finding magic in the small things.
I don’t have it all together, not even close, but I’ve got you. And honestly, that’s the best kind of managed there is.
Happy 7th Birthday my little love.
