She’s Growing Up Too Fast — And I’m Not Ready to Let Go

My daughter just finished 4th grade. Which means… she’s one year away from Grade 6.

Which means high school is no longer a far-off dream.

Which means teenagehood is peeking just around the corner.

Which means… she’s not a baby anymore.

And honestly? I don’t think I’m ready.

Sometimes I still sneak into her room when she’s asleep. Not to check on her, really — just to see. To stare at the quiet stillness of her.

And in the soft light of the night, I swear… her baby face is still there.

The roundness of her cheeks. The softness of her expression.

She looks exactly like she did when she was two or three — when she used to reach out, barely awake, and touch my face while whispering “mama.”

Sometimes she still does that. Half-asleep. Just brushes my cheek and says “mama,” like a whisper from the past. And it wrecks me. Every time.

But then the day starts, and the little girl is growing.

She makes pancakes for breakfast for all of us. She stands by the stove like she’s done it for years.

And in that split second, I saw it.

She looked like a teenager.

Not just in height or posture but in this quiet confidence. This “I got it, mom” energy.

And I had to take a picture, just to hold the moment still for myself.

We have these little bestie moments, too.

The other day, I called her from the car. We were on speaker.

“Hey girl,” I said.

“Hey mama,” she replied.

We caught up on each other’s day, tossed around a few to-do’s, and ended with a casual, joyful “Love yaaaaaa.”

My friend Melissa, who was in the car with me, just sat there in awe. “I love the way you two talk,” she said. “Like friends. Like real besties.”

And I smiled, but part of me quietly broke.

Because I know that might not last forever.

I hope it does — I hope she always feels safe coming to me, laughing with me, sharing little things.

But I also know how these years go.

There will be tension. There will be distance. There will be days where I annoy her just by breathing in her direction.

She swears it won’t happen. But I’ve lived long enough to know better.

She’s so mature for her age.

People say she’s “wise beyond her years,” and they’re right.

Her Nana says it. Her kindergarten teacher said it.

Even people who’ve just met her pick up on it within minutes.

My therapist says she’s emotionally intelligent in a way that most adults aren’t — and it’s true. She knows how to hold space for herself and for others.

She can be silly and playful and absolutely wild with her friends… but when she needs to be responsible, focused, grounded — she just is.

It’s breathtaking to witness.

And also, a little heartbreaking.

Because that kind of emotional maturity only comes from feeling deeply — and part of me wants to protect her from that. Forever.

But I know I can’t.

There will be moments in her life that will break her heart.

I might be part of them. Or I might not.

I might be the reason. Or the one picking up the pieces. Or neither.

She’ll live beautiful things, and painful things, and some I’ll be invited into, and others I’ll only hear about after the fact.

That’s the deal when you raise someone with wings.

And when she’s twenty… when she’s lived enough life to see me with new eyes… I hope she reads this.

I hope she knows that I was already missing her, even as she was standing right in front of me.

To my daughter:

I’ll be waiting for you.

Always.

I’m already so proud of you.

You are the reason I stay.

You always have been.

-Fabi