The Beauty of Temporary Things

Sometimes I think about how temporary everything is.

And strangely… that realization makes it more beautiful.

The older I get, the more I notice that every version of us leaves small fingerprints behind. Not in big dramatic ways, but in quiet little habits that stick around.

The way you fold a shirt the same way someone once showed you.
The song from two decades ago you still know by heart.
The way certain smells instantly bring you back to a moment you thought was long gone.

Pieces of who we were keep living inside who we are.

And maybe that’s what all of this is.

A bunch of people passing through the same moment in time, trying to make homes in each other. Trying to hold onto light that keeps changing shape.

And still — we love.

We love our children in that fierce, protective way that makes time feel both slow and impossibly fast.

One minute you’re tying shoes and cutting sandwiches in half.
The next you’re watching them step into a version of themselves that doesn’t need you in quite the same way anymore.

Motherhood teaches you something profound about relationships.

It teaches you that love is not possession.

It’s stewardship.

You care for something deeply, knowing it is not yours to keep forever.

You witness the constant unfolding of a human being and somehow learn to celebrate each version — even as the last one disappears.

And then there’s romantic love.

The kind where two people look at each other and say, let’s try this.

Not because it’s guaranteed.
Not because it’s permanent.

But because something inside both of you believes the time you share will matter.

Romantic relationships have a way of holding a mirror up to who we are.

They show us the parts of ourselves we’re proud of.
And the parts that still need healing.

Sometimes they last a lifetime.

Sometimes they are only meant to accompany us for a chapter.

But even the relationships that don’t last forever still shape who we become.

They leave fingerprints.

Friendships do this too.

Some friendships feel ancient the moment they begin, like stepping into a room where you are already known.

Others arrive like bright sparks in a particular season of life.

Some drift quietly as the years pass.

Others deepen and stretch across decades.

Every one of them teaches us something about connection.

About listening.
About showing up.
About being seen.

And then there is the quiet relationship we have with ourselves.

The one that evolves through every version of who we’ve been.

Because we are never just one person.

We are every version of ourselves that survived, learned, loved, lost, and began again.

The hopeful one.
The wounded one.
The brave one.
The one who chose to start over.

They all still live inside us.

Life asks us to keep building a relationship with ourselves through every stage.

To forgive who we once were.

To honor who we are becoming.

To keep choosing growth even when it’s uncomfortable.

What a strange and tender thing it is, to stay.

To wake up each day knowing that nothing lasts forever and still decide to love anyway.

To plant gardens.
To pull up extra chairs.
To save each other a seat.

We do all of these things while quietly holding the truth we rarely say out loud:

Everything ends.

And maybe that’s exactly why it matters.

Because when you understand how temporary this life is, something shifts.

You notice more.

The way sunlight moves across the kitchen table in the morning.
The sound of laughter in the next room.
The warmth of someone’s hand in yours.

The ordinary moments start to feel sacred.

And every day becomes an opportunity to practice the art of being human.

Some people will walk beside us for decades.

Some for only a short stretch of road.

Some will leave quietly, leaving behind lessons we carry for the rest of our lives.

And still, we keep loving.

Maybe the point was never to hold on forever.

Maybe the point was simply this:

To notice.

To love.

To stay present for the fleeting miracle of being alive together.

And when the morning comes tomorrow, and the light moves across the floor again…

Feed the birds first.
Love the people in front of you.
And remember that this moment — like all the others — is both temporary and sacred.