On quiet endings, growing children, and the moments you didn't know were last
I don’t remember the last time I picked Holden up before he got too big.
Sometimes he still falls asleep on the couch. Or in my bed. I used to be able to pick him up and carry him wherever he ended up. Now I just shake his arm and gently wake him instead, guiding him down the hall while he stumbles along half-asleep. I nudge him. I make sure he moves.
But I don’t remember the last time I carried him.
I don't remember the last time Caleb danced in the living room to his old Music Together CDs.
He took music classes as a baby, before he could even walk. He’d sit on the carpeted floor in a rented room of a church and dance in place, scooting himself around with remarkable rhythm. Once he started walking, he’d ask me to play the CDs at home so he could dance and laugh in the living room.
But I don’t remember the last time he asked me to play them.
They used to love shows that drove me crazy. Paw Patrol. Loud. Repetitive. That governor’s voice echoing through the house for hours. At the time, I counted the minutes until it was over.
Now I can’t remember the last time I heard it.
I didn’t notice when it stopped.
None of it ended with a ceremony. There wasn’t a final episode. No formal goodbye. Just gradual disinterest. Quiet growth. A shift so subtle I didn’t see it happening.
And that’s what unsettles me.
Last fall, the three of us started running together for a November race.
Evening runs at dusk. Cold air settling in around us. Holden close beside me, sharing one pair of AirPods because he didn’t have his own. Caleb already ahead, whipping around the track like he had somewhere important to be.
It became part of our evenings. Something steady. Something ours.
We said we’d keep going after the race.
We didn’t.
We took a short break. But winter arrived. The cold settled in. Darkness came earlier.
So the break lasted longer than we meant it to. Motivation faded. Life filled in the gaps.
It just stopped.
And it only just stopped — but I already miss it.
I miss the rhythm of our feet on the track. I miss the small negotiations over which song we’d share in the AirPods (“Golden” on repeat). I miss post-run treats and flushed cheeks and the quiet pride of doing something hard together.
We’ll run again when the weather turns. And we’ll probably have new songs next season.
But it won’t be last fall.
It won’t be that exact dusk. That exact version of them. That exact season of us.
That’s the part I’m starting to understand… not just about running, but about everything.
You don’t know when the last time is happening. You don’t know when you’re inside a season you’ll already be nostalgic for three months later.
Sometimes he still falls asleep on the couch. Or in my bed. I used to be able to pick him up and carry him wherever he ended up. Now I just shake his arm and gently wake him instead, guiding him down the hall while he stumbles along half-asleep. I nudge him. I make sure he moves.
But I don’t remember the last time I carried him.
I don't remember the last time Caleb danced in the living room to his old Music Together CDs.
He took music classes as a baby, before he could even walk. He’d sit on the carpeted floor in a rented room of a church and dance in place, scooting himself around with remarkable rhythm. Once he started walking, he’d ask me to play the CDs at home so he could dance and laugh in the living room.
But I don’t remember the last time he asked me to play them.
They used to love shows that drove me crazy. Paw Patrol. Loud. Repetitive. That governor’s voice echoing through the house for hours. At the time, I counted the minutes until it was over.
Now I can’t remember the last time I heard it.
I didn’t notice when it stopped.
None of it ended with a ceremony. There wasn’t a final episode. No formal goodbye. Just gradual disinterest. Quiet growth. A shift so subtle I didn’t see it happening.
And that’s what unsettles me.
Last fall, the three of us started running together for a November race.
Evening runs at dusk. Cold air settling in around us. Holden close beside me, sharing one pair of AirPods because he didn’t have his own. Caleb already ahead, whipping around the track like he had somewhere important to be.
It became part of our evenings. Something steady. Something ours.
We said we’d keep going after the race.
We didn’t.
We took a short break. But winter arrived. The cold settled in. Darkness came earlier.
So the break lasted longer than we meant it to. Motivation faded. Life filled in the gaps.
It just stopped.
And it only just stopped — but I already miss it.
I miss the rhythm of our feet on the track. I miss the small negotiations over which song we’d share in the AirPods (“Golden” on repeat). I miss post-run treats and flushed cheeks and the quiet pride of doing something hard together.
We’ll run again when the weather turns. And we’ll probably have new songs next season.
But it won’t be last fall.
It won’t be that exact dusk. That exact version of them. That exact season of us.
That’s the part I’m starting to understand… not just about running, but about everything.
You don’t know when the last time is happening. You don’t know when you’re inside a season you’ll already be nostalgic for three months later.
And most of the time, nothing announces it.
Some things don't end with a big moment or any sign at all.
They just happen quietly for the last time.
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