When Time Slips Through My Fingers

 

She has finished primary school.

Just like that.

My daughter is 12, turning 13 — standing at the doorway of secondary school, with a confidence that surprises me and a gentleness that still feels familiar. 

I teared up thinking about the years it took to get here: the sleepless nights, the scraped knees, the lunches packed in a rush, the conversations before bedtime that stretched longer than planned. 

Somehow, all of that shaped her into this beautiful young lady.

There are moments when I wish she were still the baby I once held so closely. Moments when I wish I were still the mother she always needed — the center of her small universe. 

But when I watch her laugh with her friends, fully present in their companionship, I understand that her world has expanded. She has new priorities now, and that is exactly how it should be.

Secondary school awaits her, and I know it will be demanding — packed schedules, new expectations, new pressures. 

Im growing as well. 

At the same time, my own life feels just as compressed. Being the only staff at the bureau means every major responsibility lands squarely on my shoulders. The work is relentless. Still, when I look at the year-end bonus and my salary, I remind myself to count my blessings and keep going.

Year-end is always difficult. It has a way of holding up a mirror — asking what I have not achieved, and whether I am doing enough. The truth is, I am not especially disciplined.

 I carry too many wild dreams: getting better at photography, learning the drums, running regularly, eating better. These are the versions of myself I imagine in quieter moments. But work, as it often does, pushes those dreams aside.

I had 14 days of leave.

Fourteen days that could have been used to improve myself, reset my routines, or chase one of those long-held dreams. Instead, I binge-watched Korean dramas. I ordered takeout instead of eating clean. And somewhere along the way, my body gave in — I fell sick.

There is guilt in admitting this. But there is also honesty.

Perhaps this is what this season of life looks like: loving fiercely, working hard, falling short, and trying again. Maybe growth does not always come in dramatic transformations, but in awareness — in recognising where we are, and gently deciding where we want to go next.

As my daughter steps into her next chapter, I am learning that I am allowed to be unfinished too. And maybe that is enough, for now.