I find myself lingering in a season of “in between.” Between an ending and a beginning. Between being the mother of one and stepping into the unknown joy of becoming the mother of two.

It’s a space that feels both miraculous and bittersweet. How could such a blessing—a new life, a growing family, the gift of another little soul to love—be anything but bliss? And yet, something within me stirs with grief. In this transition, I feel as though I am leaving behind a chapter that has defined me so deeply.

Mourning the Passing of Time

Motherhood is a paradox of holding on and letting go. My arms once cradled only Lucy, my firstborn, my tiny girl whose presence changed everything. Now she is blossoming into her own person—curious, spirited, already stepping into her role as “big sister” with pride and joy. Watching her grow fills me with unspeakable love, yet it also reminds me of what is slipping quietly into the past.

I find myself mourning the passing of time. Not in despair, but in reverence. Every season of motherhood feels sacred because it is fleeting. The weight of a small body curled into yours, the sound of little feet running across the floor, the endless questions and the sticky-fingered hugs—all of it is temporary. And so, even as I celebrate what’s ahead, I can’t help but ache for what’s behind.

There are moments when I look at my life as though through the eyes of an old woman, decades into the future. I imagine myself longing to relive these exact days—the sleepless nights, the laughter at the breakfast table, the quiet joy of simply being together. That awareness, though bittersweet, keeps me grounded. It reminds me to stay present, to absorb every detail, even in the hard and ordinary moments.

The Beauty of the In-Between

Recently, I came across a poem that gave shape to the emotions I couldn’t quite name. Written by Jana Studelska, it speaks to this season of late pregnancy—the stretch of days, sometimes weeks, that feel suspended between worlds:

“The last days of pregnancy – sometimes stretching to agonizing weeks – are a distinct place, time, event, stage. It is a time of in between. Neither here nor there. Your old self and your new self, balanced on the edge of a pregnancy. One foot in your old world, one foot in a new world. Shouldn’t there be a word for this state of being, describing the time and place where mothers linger, waiting to be called forward? Germans have a word, zwischen, which means ‘between.’ I suggest that they are now in The Time of Zwischen. The time of in between, where the opening begins. Giving it a name gives it dimension, an experience closer to wonder than endurance.”

Her words stopped me in my tracks because they named what I have been feeling: zwischen—the time of in between. It is not simply waiting. It is not merely enduring. It is inhabiting a sacred threshold, where one part of you is rooted in the life you know, and another is already reaching toward what is to come.

Embracing the Threshold

In this season, I am learning that it is okay to grieve even in the midst of joy. To celebrate new life while also honoring the seasons that are quietly ending. To allow both emotions—mourning and anticipation—to exist side by side.

This is the gift of zwischen: the awareness that change is not a single moment but a passage. It is a liminal space, a threshold where transformation is happening quietly, invisibly, but profoundly.

Motherhood is filled with these thresholds. The first smile, the first step, the first day of school. Each milestone is a beginning and an ending all at once. Each is a reminder of how precious time is, and how quickly it carries us forward.

A Life Held Together by Love

Even with the ache of change, I know what lies ahead will be extraordinary. I picture Lucy’s small hand reaching for her sibling’s, their laughter filling our home, the bond they will carry into the future. My heart already knows there is no greater joy than seeing your children grow not only as individuals but also together.

And so, as I wait here in the in-between, I choose to see this time not as something to hurry through but as something to savor. A rare pause, a threshold, a space where past and future meet.

The Germans may call it zwischen, but to me, it feels like holy ground.