O TYM ODCINKU
In this short Grace Note, Kelli reflects on an unexpected moment of grief while shopping for her growing boys—one that opened the door to a deeper realization about motherhood and the quiet ache of seasons ending.
Through humor, honesty, and spiritual reflection, this episode explores what it means to let go of who we were as young moms, make peace with who we are becoming, and trust that God’s presence remains—throughout the entire journey.
This Grace Note is a gentle reminder for mothers navigating transition: you’re allowed to mourn, you are not ungrateful, and you are still valuable (and loved) beyond measure.
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<<transcript>>
This past weekend, I wandered into a Carter’s outlet store.
And when I say wandered, I really mean I walked in with purpose—because I was on a mission to find sweatpants for my boys.
First, because that’s all they wear. And second, because I’m fairly certain they don’t actually walk on their feet… they walk on their knees.
Which means they are constantly blowing holes through perfectly good pants. And unlike jeans, sweatpants cannot be patched. They just become a dust rag.
Anyway, I was pretty sure Carter’s sizing went up to “big kid sizes” so it was worth a shot.
The moment I stepped inside, I was hit with an atmosphere that felt familiar—but also very far away.
Soft colors. Tiny hangers. Clothing so small it looks like it belongs to dolls. There were glowing parents strolling slowly, almost reverently, hiding their undoubtable fatigue with a deep love for this season of their lives.
The whole place just oozed cuteness.
Then suddenly —I felt like an imposter and my pace quickened because I no reason to dwell in the upper quadrant of the store.
I quietly made my way to the back, hoping no one would ask me anything. I flipped through a few racks, scanned a couple shelves—and sure enough, there were sizes that technically fit my boys, who are now eight and eleven.
But it was obvious.
They were not the store’s primary demographic.
No shade to Carter’s. I loved Carter’s. OshKosh too — when my kids were babies and toddlers but I was no longer a mom of littles.
As I made what felt like a slow, awkward walk of shame toward the exit, I overheard the workers at the counter chatting about a baby—something about a friend's hospital experience.
And that’s when it hit me.
I wasn’t just leaving a store — for the last time. I was beginning to mourn a season of my life that has very clearly passed.
There will be no more “Mommy’s Number One Fan” onesies. No more tiny jeans with elastic waistbands. No more soft, sleepy weight of a baby curled into my chest.
That gentleness, that warmth, that comfort that filled that space—a place I once fit so easily into—has been replaced with hooded sweatshirts and athletic shorts. With loud voices. Wrestling matches. Slammed doors with stuff falling off the wall.
And if I’m really honest, I really miss cradling a baby and holding a toddler’s hand. Momma, can you relate?
But, as I took those final steps towards the exit, breathing in the vibes, I was growing in soft acceptance that as a mother, I am where I’m supposed to be.
I’m a forty-something-year-old woman raising boys into young men. And, I trust that God is walking with me through this season, just like He has every other one, and the ones still to come.
But knowing that didn’t make closing the proverbial Carter’s door behind me any easier.
I think scripture gets this right when it says there’s a season for everything. Not a season we rush through. Not a season we pretend doesn’t hurt. Just a season that arrives or exits—whether we’re ready or not.
There’s a line in Psalm 139 that says, “Even there, your hand will guide me, and your right hand will hold me fast.”
Even there. Even when we’re standing in the doorway between what was and what is.
So maybe this Grace Note is simply an invitation—to notice the places you no longer fit. The versions of yourself that quietly wave goodbye.
Not resisting it. Not pretending it doesn’t hurt. Just letting yourself feel the ache.
I think we’re quick to spiritualize acceptance—like if we trust God enough, transitions won’t sting.
But I don’t think that’s true.
I think faith often looks like standing in the doorway of what was… grieving it… and still choosing to step forward.
So maybe this Grace Note is simply an invitation—to notice the places you no longer fit. The versions of yourself that quietly wave goodbye. And to trust that even in the ache, you are still being held.
Not by nostalgia. But by grace.
And that’s today’s Grace Note—a small, ordinary moment that opened the door to something deeper. A reminder that God meets us not just in beginnings… but in endings, too.
