I thought I knew love. I was certain I had experienced its deepest, most profound expression when I held each of my children for the first time.
Those moments when tiny fingers wrapped around my thumb, when their breath synchronized with mine, when I would have quite literally walked through fire for these small humans—I believed that was the pinnacle of love.
I was wrong.
The day my first grandchild was born, something shifted in the universe. This wasn’t a love I had to parent. This wasn’t a love weighted with responsibility and daily management. This was pure, unfiltered joy.
My daughter handed me her newborn, and I looked into eyes that seemed to hold entire galaxies. But this time, I wasn’t overwhelmed by the massive responsibility of keeping this tiny human alive.
I was simply present. Able to marvel.
Able to love without the constant background noise of parental anxiety.
Grandparenthood is like being given a second chance at wonder. You get to experience childhood again, but this time without the exhaustion of active parenting. You get to be the magical presence who arrives with surprises, who listens without judgment, who sees the pure potential in this small person.
I remember watching my own mother with my children and never quite understanding her level of indulgence. Why could she say “yes” to things I would never have allowed? Now I get it. Grandparents exist in a different emotional ecosystem—one where joy is the primary currency, and the small stuff just doesn’t matter as much.
My granddaughter doesn’t care that I move a bit slower these days. To her, I’m an adventure, a storyteller, a safe harbor. When she climbs into my lap and says, “Tell me a story,” the world stops. Nothing exists except that moment of connection.
The love is different. It’s lighter, yet somehow deeper.
I’m not responsible for teaching her how to be a human—her parents are handling that beautifully. My job is to love her extravagantly, to be a soft place to land, to be the keeper of family stories and traditions.
My children watch me with their children and sometimes look surprised. “You never let us do that,” they’ll say when I’m letting a grandchild eat ice cream before dinner or stay up past bedtime.
I just smile. Because grandparenthood is my redemption tour. My chance to be purely, unapologetically about love.
I didn’t expect how much my grandchildren would teach me. About patience. About seeing the world with fresh eyes. About finding joy in the smallest moments.
My granddaughter doesn’t care about my professional achievements or how I’ve spent my life. She cares that I can make silly voices, that I always have a story, that I think she’s the most magnificent human in the world.
There’s a freedom in grandparent love that parents can’t experience. We’ve already done the hard work of raising children. We know now that most things don’t matter as much as we thought they did.
A slightly messy room? Who cares.
A missed bedtime? Not the end of the world.
What matters is connection, is love, is showing up.
My daughter recently told me, “Mom, watching you with my child is like seeing a whole different version of you.” And she’s right. Grandparenthood has softened me, opened me, made me more present.
I’m less worried about doing things “right” and more interested in doing things with love.
When my granddaughter looks at me and says, “I love you, Grandma,” the words carry a different weight than they ever did before. This is love without condition, without expectation. This is love in its purest form.
I didn’t think I could love anyone more than I loved my children. Turns out, the heart has an infinite capacity for expansion.
Who knew that the greatest love story of my life would begin when my children had children?
Grandparenthood is the unexpected gift. The bonus round. The surprising, delightful chapter I didn’t know I was waiting for.
And oh, what a beautiful chapter it is