March, as it Passed
The day I realized I didn’t have to wait anymore
I have a theory that life meets you at your level of audacity.
March came in gently and somehow, it stayed that way.
In the first week, I took the children to the abandoned golf course. Just the 5 of them and me. It was something we used to do with their father, but this time, I went on my own. I wasn’t sure at first, but when we got there, something in me felt lighter.
We walked without hurry.
We breathed.
We played.
We brought snacks and sketchbooks, and the children sat on the grass, drawing whatever the day gave them. The trees, the sky, little things only they could see. I watched them, and for a moment, everything felt enough.
That day, I realized something simple but important.
I don’t have to wait.
If I want to go, I can go.
And I will.
So we did.
For the next weeks, we kept coming back, almost every afternoon. The place slowly became ours in a quiet way. We watched birds, the kind we used to only notice in passing. This time, we stayed. We tried to learn their names, to remember their colors, their movements. It was something we said we wanted to do in March, and we did.
The wildflowers were everywhere too, soft and unassuming, growing where they pleased. They didn’t ask for attention, but they made everything feel alive.
We stayed for sunsets.
March also held milestones. The children had their graduation. They stood proud, received their awards, smiled in ways only they can. One of them didn’t receive one this time, and I found myself at peace with it.
As long as he is okay, I am too.
Learning isn’t always something that can be held or displayed. I know, in time, he will find his own way. They all will. My place is simply to be here. To guide them, to walk beside them as they grow into who they are meant to be.
And in a quieter way, March changed something in me too.
As someone who often stays within her own small world, I found myself talking more. To other parents, to neighbors, to people I would usually just pass by. It felt unfamiliar at first, but also… good. Light. Like opening a window I didn’t know I needed.
March wasn’t loud.
It didn’t ask for much.
But it gave us space to move, to notice, to grow in small, quiet ways.
And maybe that’s what I’ll remember most.
Not the big moments, but the in-between ones
that stayed.
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