Muna Abdulmohsen Al-Aiban

Yesterday, Some Jasmine Was Wed

July 19, 2026 - 00:00 | Last updated July 19, 2026 - 00:00

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Yesterday, my daughter Shahd was wed to her dear husband, Abdulaziz.

As I write today, it doesn't feel like only a single day separates me from that moment. It feels as if I have traversed an entire lifetime in one night.

Last night, she wore her white gown, smiling that smile that mothers know so well—a mixture of joy, modesty, and wonder.

As for me, I looked at her and saw all the versions of her from the past gathered in her face: the little girl who would run toward me, the student who hid her papers in my bag, and the young woman who matured so quietly until she stood before me as a woman ready to begin her own story.

On the night before a daughter’s wedding, a mother does not feel that she is losing someone or saying goodbye. She simply stands on the precipice of two eras: a time when a small hand clung to her fingers, and a time when that same hand will be capable of holding an entire life on its own.

This is not a night of sadness, but a night of wonder. How did the years pass so quickly? How did that little girl who once slept on my shoulder transform into a woman wearing a white gown and heading toward another home?

A mother on this night does not weep for the departure; she contemplates the journey. She remembers the first day she carried her, the first laugh, the first word, the first school bag, the first success, the first heartbreak, and every time she ran to hide from the world in her arms. Then, she suddenly discovers that motherhood is not about keeping our children with us forever, but about preparing them well for the moment they are ready to leave.

And how beautiful this departure is when it serves as an extension of love, not a disconnection from it.

I write these words while everything around me seems unusually quiet, save for my own heart. There is no sadness in it, nor is there complete joy. It is a feeling difficult to name; something like standing on the bank of a long life, watching the years pass by like a single scene.

I wonder: when did my daughter Shahd grow up?

When did she cross all those years during which she was a child holding my hand, asking me about the smallest things, and filling the house with her voice, laughter, and stories?

Mothers do not notice time. We measure life differently: by the first step, the first success certificate, the first birthday party, and the first time our daughter sleeps away from us. We suddenly discover that the days were not just days, but quiet threads weaving a new human being.

Yesterday was not just a wedding day. It was a day when a mother sat face-to-face with time. I discovered that the years were not wasted, that the toil was not in vain, and that every moment of love, every piece of advice, every fear, and every prayer was building this moment without me realizing it.

Yesterday, I realized that motherhood is not about keeping our children close to us, but about giving them enough love so that they can venture into their own lives with peace of mind. And that a mother's success is measured not by her ability to hold on, but by her ability to let go.

Tomorrow, my daughter Shahd will begin a new chapter of her life, and I realize now that the most beautiful part of motherhood is that it teaches us the art of graceful letting go. To raise our children well, then grant them the courage to go toward their own lives.

After everything calmed down and I returned home, the place was the same, yet something delicate had changed.

Shahd’s room is just as it was. Her books are in their place. Its small details still pulse with her presence.

But I felt that the house had learned a new meaning of emptiness—a void that does not ache, but invites reflection.

My daughter has grown up.

And this is the truth that was hiding throughout all the past years.

Yesterday, Shahd did not leave me. Daughters never truly leave their mothers. They merely expand the boundaries of the heart, giving it another address for love.

Yesterday, some jasmine was wed to a new home, yet its fragrance remained here—in every corner, in every memory, and in the heart of a mother who now knows that the most beautiful roles in life are those we perform with love, only to step aside and watch the fruits of our labor move on to create their own spring.

Tonight, after returning from the wedding, I moved slowly between the rooms. I looked at many things that mean nothing to anyone else, but to me, they represent an entire lifetime: an old book, a fleeting photograph, a small trinket Shahd forgot years ago. How full the house seems with memories! And how full my heart is with gratitude.

Gratitude to God first, for granting me the honor of being a mother to this beautiful girl, and then for giving me this moment to see her beginning her life with confidence and love.

I realize now that daughters are like jasmine; they cannot be contained in a single garden. They grow, they bloom, and then they move on to scent another place.

Tomorrow, some of my jasmine will move to its new home.

As for me, I will remain here, smiling at all the years that have passed, whispering to myself: Go, Shahd… be as you have always been—a quiet light, a heart that resembles spring, and a good impact that leaves jasmine on every path it crosses.

May God bless your coming days, Shahd, make your home full of affection and serenity, and may my joy for you be as endless as my prayers for you.

For mothers, in the end, possess only this beautiful art: to plant roses in the hearts of their children, and then smile when they see them blooming somewhere else.

Yesterday, my daughter Shahd was married to her dear husband Abdulaziz..

As I write today, I don’t feel that only one day separates me from that moment. It feels as if I have crossed an entire lifetime in one night.

Last night, she wore her white dress, and she had that smile that mothers know well; a mix of joy, shyness, and surprise.

As for me, I looked at her and saw all the old versions of her gathered in her face: the little girl who used to run towards me, the student who hid her papers in my bag, and the young woman who quietly grew until she stood before me as a woman ready to start her own story.

On the night before the wedding of the only daughter, the mother does not feel that she is losing someone, nor that she is saying goodbye to anyone. She simply stands on the edge of two times; a time when a small hand clung to her fingers, and a time when that hand will be able to hold a whole life on its own.

This night is not a night of sadness; it is a night of wonder. How did the years pass so quickly? How did that little girl who used to sleep on her shoulder turn into a woman wearing her white dress and heading towards another home?

The mother on this night does not cry over the departure, but rather contemplates the journey. She remembers the first day she carried her, the first laugh, the first word, the first school bag, the first success, the first heartbreak, and all the times she ran to her to hide from the world in her arms. Then she suddenly discovers that motherhood is not about keeping our children with us forever, but about preparing them well for the moment they can leave.

And how beautiful this departure is when it is an extension of love, not a break from it.