Today is March 1st, a special day where I live—it marks the beginning of spring. It’s a beautiful tradition where women and girls receive small symbolic gifts and flowers, a way of celebrating renewal, warmth, and the promise of brighter days ahead. I’ve always loved this day, the feeling of joy in the air, the little red-and-white trinkets exchanged as tokens of luck. But this year, as I take it all in, I can’t help but wonder: where does time go?

In just two weeks, my baby will turn seven months old. And exactly one month later, my eldest will turn eight years old. How is that even possible? The contrast between them is so striking, yet in my heart, they are both still my tiny babies. It’s bittersweet. I love watching them grow, seeing their personalities bloom, but a part of me wants to pause time, just for a little while, to hold on to these fleeting moments before they slip away.

And while we are celebrating spring, the world outside tells a different story. It looks more like mid-November—gray skies, cold air, and snow still covering the ground. No sign of warmth, no hint of blooming flowers, just winter stubbornly refusing to leave. Maybe, in a way, that’s fitting. A reminder that time moves at its own pace, no matter how much we wish we could slow it down, hold on, or skip ahead.

But for now, I’ll embrace the traditions, the gifts, the love, and the passing of time—even if I still don’t understand how it moves so fast.