Do you know?

When my daughter Reese was just two or three years old, I sat down one day and wrote her a poem.

I don't remember what prompted it exactly. Maybe it was one of those ordinary afternoons that somehow felt extraordinary because of her. Maybe it was simply the overwhelming realization that this tiny little girl had completely changed my heart.

Whatever the reason, I knew I needed to write down what I was feeling before time carried it away.

I titled it "Do you know?"

The poem was about how deeply loved she was, how much she had changed me, and how becoming her mother transformed the way I saw the world. It was one of those things you write without thinking anyone else will ever read it. It wasn't written to be perfect. It was simply written from a mother's heart.

Then life happened.

The poem was tucked away in a drawer, in the attic, in our garage, where it quietly lived for the next sixteen years.

This summer, while sorting through old keepsakes, I found it again.

Reading those words transported me back to a younger version of myself—a young mom holding a little girl who still needed to be carried, who reached for my hand without hesitation, and who thought I knew everything.

I could almost hear her little voice again.

As I read the poem, I realized it deserved more than another sixteen years hidden away in a drawer.

It deserved to become something beautiful.

So I decided to create a painting around it.

Because every piece of art tells a story, I wanted this one to tell ours.

I included tiger lilies from our garden because they're Reese's favorite flower. Every bloom felt symbolic—rooted strongly, reaching toward the sun, just as she has grown into the remarkable young woman she is today.

This painting became so much more than watercolor and paper.

It became a time capsule.

As I worked, I made another decision.

Instead of using a perfect handwriting font and tracing the poem onto the painting, I hand wrote every word.

Normally, I'd worry about making everything look polished and as perfect as possible. But this time, perfection wasn't the point.

The point was that these were my words.

Written in my handwriting.

There are little imperfections throughout the page. Letters that lean a little too far. Lines that aren't perfectly straight. Places where my pen lingered just a second longer than intended.

Years ago, I might have been tempted to fix those things.

Now, they're my favorite part.

Because someday those imperfections will matter.

One day, Reese won't just remember the words. She'll recognize the way I formed my letters. She'll remember birthday cards, lunch notes, Christmas tags, and little messages tucked into unexpected places.

Those ordinary pieces of handwriting become extraordinary once the years begin to pass.

She doesn't know that yet.

Most of us don't.

It's funny how the things we spend so much of our lives trying to perfect are rarely the things that become most meaningful.

It's the handwritten recipe card with flour stains.

The signature inside a favorite book.

The note scribbled on the back of a photograph.

The child's drawing tucked inside an old box.

These become treasures because they carry a piece of someone we love.

As I finished the painting, I realized this piece wasn't just a gift for Reese.

It was a gift for me.

It reminded me that motherhood isn't measured by milestones alone. It's found in the ordinary moments that quietly shape a lifetime—the bedtime stories, the garden walks, the conversations in the kitchen, the flowers we planted together, and the words we never expected to read again sixteen years later.

And now here we are.

Later this week, Reese moves out again.

Even though this isn't the first time, it somehow feels just as emotional. Every new season asks us, as parents, to loosen our grip just a little more while somehow loving even more deeply.

No matter how old she gets, I'll always see glimpses of that little girl with curious eyes and endless questions.

She'll always be my baby.

I'm incredibly proud of the woman she's becoming, but I'd be lying if I said letting go gets easier.

Maybe that's why finding this poem felt like such a gift.

It reminded me that while time moves forward, love doesn't leave behind the places it has been.

It simply grows.

So later this week, this painting will hang in her first (off campus college) apartment as a reminder that some of life's most meaningful treasures aren't the ones we planned to create.

They're the ones that quietly waited for us to rediscover them.

Love you, Reese.

You'll always be my little girl.

<3 Mama