Days Are Long, Years Are Short

I now have two college graduates and one still in college. As I scroll through everyone’s posts—celebrating high school and college graduations, even preschool, lower school, middle school, and graduate school—it’s got me reflecting: how did it all go by so quickly?

Years ago, when I was deep in the chaos of raising three children—likely at three different schools—I once said to an older neighbor, whose children had long since left home, that the days felt endless. I remember telling her that, despite constantly being in motion, I often felt like I wasn’t accomplishing much. She smiled knowingly and said, “The days are slow, but the years are fast.” I understood her then, but I really feel it now. It seems like just yesterday I was strapping little ones into booster seats, hiding pacifiers, and sneaking gifts from the Tooth Fairy, Easter Bunny, and Santa. Back then, the days blurred into one another—not because I didn’t love being a mother (it’s all I ever truly wanted to be), but because motherhood can sometimes feel invisible.

There were moments when I questioned everything: whether I was doing it well enough, whether I was enough. Sometimes the job felt impossible. Other times, it was simply exhausting. And yet, I don’t think I’m alone in this. Being a stay-at-home mother is hard work, often with little recognition—and yet we do it. Not for praise or rewards, but because we love our children beyond reason. Because we want more for them. Because, in our bones, we believe there’s no work more meaningful.

Of course, there were magical days—many, even most. But in the thick of it, it often felt like anything that went wrong was my fault, and everything that went right was due to luck, someone else’s help, or my children’s own grit. Being a mother isn’t like the swan gracefully gliding on the water. It’s more like being the feet below the surface—paddling like mad so they can float beautifully above. When I think of it that way, I feel proud. I did something great: I kept my family afloat.

We’re told that as women and mothers, we must be everything. And no matter how hard we try, it rarely feels like enough. People sometimes ask me what I did “before this.” I’ve sat down with The New York Times and The Wall Street Journal, and they’ve asked, too. I always said the same thing: I was a mother. That’s what I had always wanted to be. To me, it was a version of the same creative act I pursue now—bringing something greater, more beautiful, and more meaningful into the world. But people don’t want to hear that. They want to hear I was a curator, a scientist, an architect. No one asks, “How does a mother become something more?” But here’s the truth: there’s no such thing as “just a mom.”

The women I work with now are mothers. They are multi-tasking wizards, creative problem-solvers, relentless advocates. They know how to navigate tough conversations with grace, whether it’s with a coach, teacher, or principal. They are bright, resilient, and grateful to finally feel confident in something again—because when your children grow up, the hole that’s left is immense. But anyone who was a mother and became something else was never not that thing. It was always there, waiting for its turn. I was always an artist, a poet, a creative—it just had to wait.

I have no plans to grow old, only to grow forward. I’m so excited for what’s next. Sometimes I need time and distance to reflect, to gain the perspective that only comes with space. But I can say this with clarity: I’m so glad I was a mom. Yes, the days were long, and yes, the years were heartbreakingly short. My children will always be my greatest creation—my proudest accomplishment. I still look at them in awe, wondering how I ever had a hand in something so extraordinary.

Even as they grow up and need me less, I know—like everything else I’ve ever made—they carry a piece of me with them. And I will always carry a piece of them.

Congratulations to all the graduates, and to all the parents who helped get them there.

With love and light,