I used to think the magic of motherhood was all for them. You know—twinkly lights that somehow stay up way past their season, silly little routines, the same book read every night even though I could recite it from memory. I figured my role was just the behind-the-scenes wizard, coffee in hand, making the days feel warm and familiar.

What I didn’t expect was how much that magic would sneak back to me.

Somewhere between packing snacks and inventing traditions I don’t even remember starting, I changed. I got softer. More patient. Weirdly more impressed by tiny things, like how exciting bubbles are or how serious bedtime rituals can be. The quiet, ordinary days—the ones that don’t look like much from the outside—started to feel kind of special.

Turns out, while I’m shaping their world with love (and a little chaos), it’s shaping me right back. The magic was never just about them feeling safe and happy—it’s also about me becoming steadier, warmer, and a little more full of wonder than I used to be.

So yes, I make the magic. But I also get to keep some of it. And honestly? That feels like a pretty great deal. ✨