In the chaos of daily tasks and endless to-do lists, Kristen reflects on her motherhood style and reminds us to slow down and savor the fleeting moments that truly matter.
How often have you told yourself, “I need to do this, and that,” but the list just never ends? There’s always something. A pile of laundry waiting. Trash cans that need emptying. Diapers to buy. Appointments to schedule. The mental to-do list loops like a song stuck on repeat—relentless, unforgiving.
But one day, it hit me: that list? It will never stop. It will always be there.
What won’t always be there is this moment. This season with my son is fleeting and fragile. The chance to sit on the floor, simply play, and to be present. He’s almost two. And right now, this is all he wants. All he needs.
Life will return to some sort of routine, eventually. The pieces will fall back into place. But maybe children come into our lives precisely to interrupt that rhythm. To slow us down. To invite us into their pace—a world where time stretches and wonder lives in the most ordinary things.
I used to chase the next big goal. Sometimes I find myself reflecting on my career—thinking about how I can grow, improve, and keep evolving. But motherhood quietly shifted something deep inside of me. It offered a new season—one of serenity, softness, and stillness. A slowness that no job title or promotion could ever gift. And in that slowness, I found healing. I found presence. I felt whole again.
Sure, I still catch myself drifting—planning out the week, checking boxes, forecasting meals and meetings. But now, I’m more aware of the weight that urgency brings. And in those moments, I hear my mother’s voice, echoing like a warm breeze:
“Cuando te sientas abrumada, solo huele la cabecita de tu bebé. Mira sus manitas. Son pequeñas. Él está aprendiendo el mundo, igual que tú. Y eso está bien.“
There’s a quiet magic in this kind of slowness.
It reminds me of my abuelita’s rancho in México—the kind of slow that feels holy. The kind where you wake up with the rising sun, not an alarm clock. The rooster crowing, the gentle clucking of gallinas, the smell of earth still wet with morning dew. There were no plans, no calendars—just a soft rhythm to follow: maybe café de olla and huevos with salsa for breakfast, maybe boil some frijoles for later, pull weeds in the garden, greet the vecinos passing by. That was the day. And it was enough.
That same kind of pace lives in baking—slow, intentional, layered. You gather the best ingredients, you prep with care, you wait. Or in hiking—step by step, breath by breath, until you finally reach the view.
Children carry that same energy. They don’t rush. They don’t over-plan. They live moment to moment—curious, present, wild and wonderful. And maybe that’s the lesson they offer us: That life isn’t meant to be sprinted through. It’s meant to be lived—deeply, fully, softly.
So let them teach you. Let them pull you into their world as you walk through motherhood.
And if you need to slow down, do it.
The dishes, the emails, the errands—they can wait.
You’ll get to them tomorrow.
But this?
This moment is now.
