This week felt a little mixed, with a lot of rain scattered between a few hot, sunny days. The kind of rain that lingers and leaves its mark—flooding in the streets and pooling in the playgrounds.
Before the heavier rain came through, we went to the park—my husband, my daughter, my mother-in-law, and me. It’s a place we’ve been returning to for years, one that has quietly held so many different versions of our lives.
Being there this time felt different. I found myself noticing how much has changed.
She used to come here when she was two, when everything felt bigger and just out of reach. Now she climbs the ladder on her own without hesitation. She even made her way up the tall slide, which made me instinctively tense and tell her to go back down the right way. But she was proud of herself, and I could see it in the way she moved—more confident, more certain.
At the same time, I couldn’t help but remember a moment from years ago when she ran from me trying to get to a park across the street. I remember the panic in my chest, the fear of not reaching her in time, both of us crying in that moment. It’s strange how quickly those memories come back, even when everything around them has changed.
Standing there this week, watching her climb, swing, and run through the open field, it all seemed to overlap—the fear, the growth, the small moments that didn’t feel small at the time.
This park has been part of so much for us. It was in the neighborhood we first rented, back when everything felt a little more uncertain. We’ve flown a kite there, taken photos, and marked time in ways I didn’t fully realize until now.
Nothing big happened this week. But in being there, I noticed something I might have missed before—how much can change without you realizing it while you’re in it.
