Something.

Something in the air these days is telling me that this season is coming to an end. I notice the leaves, waiting impatiently to change their colors. I hear the wind blowing, getting extremely restless.

A transition is on its way, and I look around, giving a silent nod to those who sense it, too.

My birthday crept up on me this year, making its arrival on a rather uneventful and unassuming Wednesday this week. And although I am feeling a little nostalgic, I am embracing this upcoming age with open arms.

I am excited to move on, and am learning not to hold on anymore -- to time; to mistakes; to moments; to youth.

My mother never fails to remind me that she had me at 25. And even though she was much more innocent and child-like at that age than I am now, she is endlessly more fearless, and persistent, and much more resilient than I will ever be. There is just no comparison, and my heart swells when I remember and recount all the sacrifices she's had to make over these last decades.

So much suffering. So much pain. And yet, she still went on, because she never made it about her.

It was never about her. It was always about us, and it was always about her love for us.

Love. It's the one thing that can keep us going from one season to another, I think.