They say time flies when you’re having fun—but when you’re traveling with your mother, time doesn’t just fly. It pauses. It slows down in the most unexpected places: in laughter over fish and chips, in shared glances while figuring out train schedules, in quiet walks when the world outside doesn’t need to be captured, only felt. I’ve come to understand that there are days we remember not for their perfection but for their presence. And this trip was exactly that—a collection of imperfect, sacred moments shared between the woman who gave me life and the woman I’ve slowly become.

We didn’t follow a perfect itinerary. Some days we got lost, missed trains, and settled for snacks instead of proper meals. But none of that mattered, because the real gift was simply being together. In Aberystwyth, I watched her by the shore, eyes soft against the silver-blue sea, as if searching for a kind of peace she hadn’t touched in years. In that moment, something clicked: this wasn’t just a holiday. It was a quiet reunion—not just of mother and daughter, but of two women meeting each other again outside the roles they’ve had to carry.

I brought her here before she flies back to the Philippines—a spontaneous decision that, in hindsight, feels like one of the most meaningful I’ve made. Because time isn’t always something you plan. Sometimes, it’s something you make room for. We laughed. We rested. We got tired. But more than anything, we were together. And in that togetherness, I discovered what time is truly made of. Not hours or days. But pauses. Stillness. Slowness. A shared meal. A second cup of tea. A moment of silence that didn’t need to be filled.

Traveling with my mom reminded me that we often chase time as if it’s running away from us.

But in reality, time isn’t something we lose. It’s something we miss when we’re not fully present. And in this fleeting visit, I was reminded to be here. To stop measuring days by productivity or achievement, but instead by the weight of memory and the warmth of love.

Soon, she’ll board her flight, and I’ll return to my shifts, my lists, and my responsibilities. But something in me has changed. I no longer look at time with the same restlessness. I now understand that its value isn’t in how much of it we have, but how fully we choose to hold it.

But I will remember how it felt to slow down beside my mother.

When I look back at this trip, I won’t remember every street name or landmark. But I will remember how it felt to slow down beside my mother. To laugh without rushing. To walk without a goal. To sit across from her and be reminded that she, too, was once a dreamer, a traveler, a woman waiting for her own life to bloom.

And in this season of always chasing the next thing, I’ve been gifted a pause. A beautiful, quiet pause. One I’ll carry with me long after the photographs fade.

Photo of the Week: Mama, smiling in the breeze of Aberystwyth.

Song on repeat while writing this: “Moments We Live For” by In Paradise

Quote that stayed with me:

“Time is not measured by clocks, but by the moments that take your breath away.”