Yesterday, my eldest turned eighteen.

I watched him stand in front of his birthday cake, taller than me now, he is no longer the little boy I once carried on my hip. As he blew out the candles, I felt that familiar mix of pride and something quieter… something harder to name.

Eighteen. It’s a number that sounds grown. Legal. Independent. Official. He can vote. He can sign his own documents. He can make decisions that no longer require my signature. Just last week, a letter arrived asking for his consent so I could access his school records. I remember holding that paper a little longer than necessary. After eighteen years of doctor’s appointments, report cards, permission slips, and being the default contact for everything, I now need his permission. It was a small administrative detail, but emotionally, it felt like a shift.

Maybe because motherhood doesn’t prepare you for the quiet transitions. No one announces the last bedtime story. No one warns you about the last time they reach for your hand without thinking. And no one quite explains what it feels like when the child who once needed you for everything starts needing you differently.

There’s a quote I once read: “when you decide to have a child, you decide forever to have your heart walk around outside your body.”

Eighteen years later, I understand that in a way I couldn’t when I first read it. This milestone hasn’t just made me reflect on my son’s journey, it also made me reflect on mine.

It’s been eighteen years of trying my best. Eighteen years of learning on the job. Eighteen years of growing alongside the little human I was tasked to guide. And somewhere between the sleepless nights, school concerts and teenage debates, I’ve changed too. Motherhood has shaped me in ways I never anticipated.

Eighteen years later, here’s what it has taught me.

It really does go fast (even when it doesn’t feel like it) When you’re exhausted and counting down to bedtime, time feels slow. But zoom out, and it’s shocking. One minute you’re packing snacks and wiping sticky hands. The next minute you’re talking about voting, contracts, and adult responsibilities. The days are long. The years? They sprint.
You’re not just raising a kid, you’re raising a person. Somewhere along the way, I realized I wasn’t just managing behavior. I was shaping character. Every reminder to be kind. Every conversation about money. Every “own your mistake and say sorry.” Those little talks? They matter more than we think.
Independence is the goal even when it stings. You spend years teaching them to think for themselves. And then they do. They started to form opinions. Then they challenge you. They now make choices without asking first. It’s uncomfortable sometimes. But it’s also proof that they’re growing. Letting go is part of the assignment of moms.
You will get it wrong sometimes. Yes, I will not deny, I’ve lost my patience. I’ve overreacted. I’ve replayed moments wishing I handled them better. But I’ve also learned this: kids don’t need perfect moms. They need present ones. And sometimes, “I’m sorry” builds more trust than pretending you never mess up.
The teen years are not the enemy. People warn you about teenagers like they’re a storm you have to survive. But honestly, for me, some of our best conversations happened during these years. Yes, there were eye rolls. But there were also deep talks about life, purpose, fear, relationships. Teenagers don’t push you away because they don’t love you. They’re just figuring themselves out.
You have to grow too. Motherhood doesn’t just grow the child, it grows the parent. I had to learn patience I didn’t naturally have. Flexibility I didn’t think I needed. Strength, I didn’t know was there. Raising him forced me to mature in ways nothing else could.
Taking care of yourself isn’t selfish. For years, I thought putting myself last was part of the job. Now, I know better. When I take care of my mental health, my physical health, my dreams, I model adulthood. Burnout isn’t a badge of honor. Balance is.
The relationship evolves and that’s a good thing. At some point, you stop being the manager of their life. You become the advisor. The sounding board. The safe place. That shift can feel emotional. But it’s also beautiful. It means you’ve built something strong enough to change shape.
They will always be your baby. My first born is eighteen. Legally an adult. Making his own decisions. But when I look at him, I still see the toddler holding my hand. And I also see the man he’s becoming. Being a mom lets you hold the past, present, and future all at once. That never stops.

To you my dearest Raphael, happy 18th birthday.
Thank you for teaching me how to be your mom.
Thank you for stretching me, challenging me, and loving me through my learning curve.
Thank you for becoming someone I genuinely enjoy talking to not just parenting.
When I look at you, I see the little boy you were, the young man you are, and the future that’s waiting for you. I am so proud of you.
And no matter how grown you get, you will always have a home in me.

And To the Parents Reading This…

If you’re in the thick of toddler tantrums, hang in there. If you’re navigating teenage moods… breathe. If your child is already grown and you’re adjusting to a new kind of relationship, you’re not alone. We’re all just figuring it out as we go. There is no perfect script. No guaranteed formula. There is just love. Effort. Showing up again and again.

Eighteen years later, that’s what I know for sure: The stages change. The roles shift. But the love… it only grows.

And somehow, that makes all of it worth it.