I didn’t expect bedtime to be the thing that broke me [in that way that motherhood tends to do before it puts you back together again].

For almost two years, Henry has been the “put himself to bed” kid. We’d do our routine, tuck him in, and he’d just… drift off. No fanfare. No back-and-forth. I’d tell people I was waiting for the other shoe to drop… secretly thinking it never would. 

Rookieeeee mistake.

Overnight, it changed. Now he calls [read: screams] for me. He whispers, “Don’t go everywhere,” as he clings to my neck, arms wrapped tight around me, asking me to sit in his chair until he falls asleep.

I spent a solid week trying to “fix it.” Trying everything they say to do. More connection before bed, more reassurance, more structure, more consistency, more… something.

But nothing worked.

And somewhere in the middle of all that trying, bedtime became the thing I dreaded most. It felt like postpartum all over again… anxiety creeping in as early as mid-morning — that low hum of knowing what was coming. It felt so backwards for something that’s supposed to be soft: closing the day; tucking your kid in.

So one night, I stopped. 

Not in a dramatic, “I’ve figured it all out” kind of way. It was more of a giving-in-because-what-else-can-I-do-and-I’m-SO-tired-of-fighting-you-on-this kind of way.

I let go of the plan. I sat in the chair. I brought a blanket, my knitting, my nerdy knitting light, my Kindle, the monitor… And I stayed.

And something shifted.

Not just for him — though he settled immediately [of course he did] — but for me. It just felt better.

Not perfect, not magical, but right. Like I had been trying to solve the wrong problem all along. Our routine wasn’t broken. He wasn’t broken. He just needed something. And I’m the person he needed it from.

This little season has been teaching me a few things I didn’t realize I needed to learn again.

That if it feels good for both of us — if it brings more ease, more softness, more connection — then it’s the right thing. Even if it doesn’t match what the [many, many] Google searches say.

That this is just a season. He won’t need me in that chair forever. There will be a night when I get up and walk out, and he doesn’t call me back in.

And that’s the part that gets me.

Because as much as that thought brings relief in the middle of a long night, it also makes me unthinkably sad. The bone-deep knowing that this is moving faster than I can hold onto it. 

That one day, years from now, I’ll look back at this version of him — almost three, asking me to stay just a little longer — and I’ll ache for it.

For the weight of those extra minutes.

For the quiet rhythm of his breathing as he drifts off.
For the way he reaches for me at the end of the day.

It’s funny, the things we resist. The moments we try to hurry through or solve or smooth over. And then later, they’re the very ones we wish we could step back into, even just for a second.

And I think that’s part of why I care so much about photographing seasons the way I do. I don’t want the polished version, not the version that looks like you have it all figured out — but the real, in-between moments that feel ordinary while you’re in them. The ones you don’t even know you’ll miss until they’re weeks behind you.

If you’re in a season like that — the kind you’re half trying to hold onto and half trying to make it through — I’d love to help you keep a piece of it.

For now, I’m sitting in the chair. I’m letting it be. I’m leaning into letting his tiny breaths count the moments instead of minutes on a clock.

[I’m also halfway through knitting a sweater and crushing my 2026 reading goal.]

Because I know — in that way you can’t quite explain but feel all the same — that this is something I’ll miss.

[This note was written while Brooks Rosser’s American Idol performances play on a loop in the background, and I sip my second cup of [how-is-it-always-lukewarm] coffee.]

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