There was a time they walked beside me,
their tiny fingers wrapped around mine.
Now they walk ahead—confident, स्वतंत्र, (independent)
and I follow… quietly,
holding on through moments I can frame, but never pause.
This past weekend, I was visiting my children at their college—following them around, watching them, doing my own thing which is stand in the back , on the side, on the bleachers , mostly taking photos, videos, soaking it all in . I was there to attend a few concerts where they were performing.
There is something about being in their world that makes time feel slightly suspended. Between crowded halls, instruments tuning, and familiar unfamiliar faces, I found myself simply observing them—how they move, how they belong, how they have grown into themselves.
At one of the venues, another parent standing nearby asked me if I had a child performing in the mix of performers where they were hanging out, waiting to go on stage.
We started talking.
I told him about another event I was planning to attend later that day. He seemed surprised—he didn’t know about it. Then he mentioned that his daughter didn’t really want him taking her photos .
“She doesn’t like it,” he said. “You’re lucky—they let you take theirs.”
Lucky.
I remember responding without pausing , half honestly, half instinctively.
“I don’t really ask for permission,” I said. “I just go and do.”
Not fully sure in that moment whether that was right or wrong. Some of you may not agree with me.
But I added, softly—almost as if I was explaining it to myself more than to him—
“I am here to watch them. And it’s important to me that I take their photos. I always have.”
Part of it was because I don't have any pictures of me growing up and the other part was, our extended family lives in a different country, in different time zones, they can never be here to watch them at anything. So, I made it my mission to record, to take photos so the grandparents and other family members could see.
Later, I spoke to my children about this conversation.
My son said,
“Even if we told you no… is that going to stop you?”
And without hesitation, I knew the answer.
No.
It wouldn’t.
Because somewhere along the way, taking their photos became more than habit. It became memory-keeping. A quiet archive of love I don’t always know how to say out loud.
Every now and then, they call me asking for pictures—of so-and-so, at some place, on some day. Somehow, they’re always certain I must have kept those moments too.
And I don't always post everything on social media, not without asking them.
Also, While I was there, something unexpected also happened.
A few of their professors walked up to me and told me how amazing my children are. They asked me if I had any parenting tips—how did I raise such fine kids?
They said they have truly enjoyed having them in class and that they will surely miss them.
I stood there for a moment, smiling, but also quietly absorbing it all.
Because as parents, we rarely hear this part while we are still in it—the part where others see what we have been building all along, one ordinary day at a time.
There is something deeply emotional about watching your children grow into independent individuals, while still hearing echoes of the little ones they once were—in the words of others, in their laughter, in the way they stand in a room.
And maybe photography is my way of holding all of that in one place—what was, what is, and what is becoming.
Do they always love it? Probably not.
Do I sometimes wonder if I should ask more, pause more, step back more? Yes.
But in those fleeting moments—on stage, in between laughter, walking ahead of me without realizing I’m watching—I still reach for my camera.
Because these are my moments too.
And one day, when time has moved even faster than I’m ready for, I know I’ll be grateful that I didn’t stop capturing them.
Maybe love, at this stage of motherhood,
is not about holding their hand anymore…
but about learning how to hold moments instead.
Here are some questions for you,
Do you document your children’s lives freely, or do you pause and ask for permission as they grow older? Where do you draw the line between holding on and letting go?
When others compliment your children, does it change the way you see your own journey as a parent? Do you ever realize your “ordinary days” were building something extraordinary?
On a different note, sharing an old blog ICYMI.
https://www.rekhasrambling.com/2024/05/an-obsession-with-photography.html
https://www.rekhasrambling.com/2024/06/celebrating-small-victories.html
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