Learning to Make Space for Change

A reflection on change, motherhood, and letting life move—without pressure to enjoy every moment perfectly. For parents learning to let go.

Learning to Make Space for Change

A gentle reflection on letting life move

What is your relationship with change?
Mine has always been complicated.
As far back as I can remember, I’ve struggled with letting things go. Even small changes felt like losses I hadn’t agreed to.

When I was very young, my parents sold our old brown Chrysler. I used to get sick in the back seat almost every time we drove anywhere — and still, when I found out the car was already gone, I cried.
I hadn’t said goodbye properly.

A few years later, our bathroom was renovated. The turquoise tiles disappeared. So did the small Donald Duck hook next to the sink, where I used to hang my washcloth on his beak. Donald couldn’t be saved. I cried again.

And then there were the bigger changes. I remember dreading the day my older brothers would move out. Everything would be different. Life, as I knew it, would never return to normal.

Change has always been here — long before I had words for it.

Over time, I’ve started to notice how much lighter life might feel if I stopped resisting change so fiercely.

Because change isn’t optional.
It’s happening all the time.

If you’re anything like me, you may sometimes wonder:
Wouldn’t life be easier if we learned to meet change with a little more openness, instead of bracing ourselves against it?

Sometimes I imagine going back to spend time with the child I once was — the one who mourned her Donald Duck hook.
I wonder whether I’m still connected to her.

So much has changed since then. And yet, I wouldn’t undo it.
I would love to visit that life for a moment — to hug my grandmother again, to sit on the swing in our garden and make up songs out loud.
But if life hadn’t continued, if change hadn’t carried me forward, I wouldn’t be able to hold my children today.

That’s the paradox, isn’t it?
We long for what was — and at the same time, we depend on life moving on.

When I studied philosophy, I came across the thought experiment known as the Ship of Theseus: a ship whose parts are replaced one by one over time, until nothing of the original remains.
Is it still the same ship?

I often think of us that way.

The cells in our body have been replaced many times since childhood.
Our beliefs, identities, and inner landscapes shift again and again.
We grow. We soften. We harden. We change our minds.
And still, we call ourselves “me.”

I like to think of life as a work of art — a collage made from countless experiences.
In that light, change doesn’t take away.
It adds depth.
It makes the piece more complex, more honest, more interesting.

There is, however, one part of change that still unsettles me:
the quiet anxiety of missing out.

Am I present enough?
Am I enjoying life properly?
Am I doing this right?

We are constantly surrounded by images of what a “good life” is supposed to look like.
The message is subtle but persistent:
You should be happier. More grateful. More fulfilled. More present.

This pressure becomes especially loud in parenthood.

For a long time, I felt weighed down by the idea that I should cherish every single moment with my children — and feel joyful while doing it.
But who truly feels that way all day, every day?

The expectation to fully enjoy every good moment often has the opposite effect.
We step out of the moment and start watching ourselves from the outside, worried that we’re not appreciating it enough.
Presence turns into performance.

I remember how, when my children were babies, people often said:

“Enjoy this time — it goes by so fast.”

Exhausted parents don’t need to be reminded that time passes.
They already know.
What they don’t need is the added weight of guilt for wishing — sometimes — for rest, sleep, or a moment to themselves.

Strangely, I remember feeling something similar as a child when adults told me to truly enjoy my childhood because it wouldn’t last.
Instead of joy, it created a tinge of anxiety.
A vague fear that something precious was slipping away, and I didn’t know how to hold onto it.

Children have worries, too.
It’s not fair to place adult nostalgia on their shoulders.

I’ve told you about my uneasy relationship with change.
And yet, as a parent, I know this:
Our task is not only to allow our children to grow independent — it is to encourage it.

That’s hard when all we want is to freeze time.

I often worry that I’m not giving my children enough.
That we could experience more.
That I’m missing something important while being caught up in worries, logistics, and responsibility.

There are years I grieve — years shaped by divorce, conflict, and emotional weight.
And sometimes I look at my children now, growing so quickly, and wonder where the time went.

So how do we soften our resistance to change, without pretending it doesn’t hurt?

I don’t have a formula. But these are the thoughts I return to again and again:

• I try to see change not as something that takes away, but as something that shapes me. Every experience adds another aspect to who I am becoming.

• I imagine Russian nesting dolls — how each layer removed brings us closer to the core.

• I ask myself, gently: Who do I want to be in this new chapter?

• I allow sadness its place. Melancholy is not a failure; it’s a way of honoring what mattered.

• And I’m learning to release the pressure to enjoy every moment “properly.” I try to relax into the moment.

Change doesn’t ask us to rush.
It only asks us to move — slowly, honestly, imperfectly.

With love,
Uli

If you’re in the first weeks after a breakup, you might find my free guide 7 Days to Calm helpful — it’s designed for single parents who need steadiness, not pressure.