I’m in the good part

“I’m in the good part.”

Those words formed first in my mind, then into a whisper on my lips. I’m in the good part. 

Sitting comfortably with a hot coffee in my right hand, while my left was busy, gently sharing sips of water with my 10-month-old boy, his innocent gaze fixed on me as if absorbing every ounce of love and care I could offer. 

My little family of five relaxed at a pine table enjoying eggs, bacon, biscuits, pancakes, sitting between walls with scattered old-timey photos, and the low hum of Saturday morning conversations at tables around us. 

In this moment of calm, all of the sound in my ears seemed to become faint and those words in my head felt audible. 

I am so thankful for these pockets of sunshine. And not because I’m unrealistic or naive to the relentlessness of parenting and life at home. 

Knowing the easy or idealistic parts of family life like this are only little blips in our reality doesn’t diminish my joy. 

In fact, as I turn it over in my head I decide it’s definitely the tension between the easy and the hard that keeps the special, easier moments of rest and play together worth noticing.

In my teens, I looked ahead and planned for only ease and happiness. I wanted days of importance and also, weightlessness. 

The absence of mundanity, ordinary living, quiet decisions; I wanted 8 figures yearly to support an imaginary life of play and only doing the work that I wanted, when I wanted. 

Day turned to night, night into day, over and over and now I’m 29 with three kids and my life isn’t weightless play and endless ease. 

Instead, I was given right now. 

A reality of being needed even when I don’t want to be anymore. 

A pile of laundry, dishes to load at the end of the night, lots of ordinary decisions. 

And somehow… I’ve found it’s better than that imaginary life of only highs.

I’ve learned that I love tension between the harder parts of living and the moments of ease. 

I don’t believe I could fully appreciate my own life if it lacked contrast. 

The work helps me anticipate and appreciate rest. The rest gives me joy to work. 

Perhaps it’s similar to my love of light and shadow together in my home, in my photos: this tension adds depth, contrast, and ultimately, beauty. 

The ordinariness of some days, or the struggles of others don't diminish the happiness in these easier, seemingly idyllic instances; rather, they accentuate it. 

"I'm in the good part." This thought captured an understanding I’m finally getting to in my adult years.

The good part isn’t about not having the harder or more ordinary parts of life anymore. 

I’m cooking dinners and wiping down the same table at least 5 times a day. 

The good part isn’t having every longing satisfied, every prayer answered, every hurt healed up.

We’re nearly two years into living in a space that was supposed to be only a transition moment for us, a few months here. Instead, I don’t know when we’ll build that home we dreamed up together. 

The good part is a change inside me.

I thought the good part was going to start once certain things happened on the outside. That maid I’ve always wanted to hire, she’d be a part of it. 

And my dishes wouldn’t be in a stinky day old pile when my friend drops by with barely any notice during an especially sleepless week.

I used to think the good part was a season, or set of circumstances. 

On a train traveling through Europe with Matthias by my side, years before we had children, I found myself being transformed by the writing of Victor Frankl. 

His book Man’s Search For Meaning is one that should likely stay on all of our yearly reading rotations.

I don’t have the language to describe what he did for my heart, so I won’t waste my words. Instead, I’ll share share some of his:

“everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms — to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s own way.”

It feels almost wrong to be strengthened in my breezy life by the brave words of a man who lived through the cruel reality of Auschwitz. 

But truly, his understanding of life reshaped mine. 

I’m not looking to create a life of only high moments; instead I’m leaning in and paying attention to how my joy and weariness can coexist in a day. 

Over the course of writing this afternoon, my baby ripped the beautiful leaves off one of my favorite house plants and I felt personally offended. 

Then he dumped over a box of crackers, making a crumby mess that honestly made my insides feel high-pitched and screechy. 

But as I swept it up, that knowing was still there. I’m in the good part. 

In a world that often glorifies the extraordinary and seeks to escape the mundane, embracing the tension between the two has become my weapon to fight for my own contentment. 

I don’t have to chase it. 

It’s not on the other side of having a perfectly organized schedule and routine.

It’s not on the other side of this to-do list or that dream. 

It’s not in the house we want to build. 

“It is what we make of what we have, not what we are given, that separates one man from another.” said Nelson Mandela.

And I think to myself, I’m in the good part, as I take another sip of my coffee.

I used to compartmentalize: spiritual vs. physical

Today’s my 29th birthday. 

I thought about making a list of 29 things that I’ve learned or something, but instead I just wanted to share one thing.

One thing that changed everything for me.

Realizing my physical life and world are also spiritual. 

Realizing the things I do in my physical world can be acts of worship when my heart is right. 

I used to compartmentalize.

spiritual vs. physical

There was my spiritual life & then there was my physical life.

And they didn’t really touch expect for when I wanted to make sure others saw my spirituality. (Cringe.)

Say the right things.

Have the right attitudes.

Wear the right clothes.

Go the right places.

I thought to be ‘more spiritual’ I needed less time thinking on or moving within the physical world.

More sitting still, eyes closed, quiet, prayerful. Is this what God requires of me? If I do this more than others, have I achieved something?

I don’t believe that lie any more. 

I don’t see the monk hidden out as closer to or more obedient to God than the person living the calling God has for them.

I’m not more spiritual when I’m up in the early morning alone in prayer than I am when I’m making dinner for my family.

One isn’t just spiritual while the other is just physical. 

Both are acts of worship if my heart is right. Both are empty and in vain when my heart is wrong.

God isn’t annoyed that my home is full of noisy children. He isn’t frightened that our conversations will be lacking now that I don’t have all the free time and space that I did in the past.

He’s not disappointed when the places I meet him are in the car driving, in the kitchen cooking, on a walk, in the last few minutes before drifting off to sleep. 

He wouldn’t be more pleased with me if it was 7am and on my couch. 

He’s not more pleased with me in our row at church on Sunday worshipping in song, than He is when I’m home on a Thursday afternoon wiping out my bathroom sink in conversation with him.

He’s not impressed when others think highly of me and my ‘christian life.’

He’s not disappointed in me when others look down on me because I don’t look like the ‘right kind of christian’ in their estimation. 

He loves me.

He desires relationship with me. 

He’s is good. 

I am thankful for 29 years of life and that each day gets better as I know the Ultimate Author a little more.

Not because we aren’t paying attention, not because we’re looking the other way...

I’ve noticed that sometimes I’ll be looking at the same thing as a friend, but we’re seeing entirely different stories.

It's fascinating to me how our focus changes what we actually see in the world, even when we’re looking at the same moments. 

Have you ever heard of "The Gorilla Experiment”? It was a study conducted at Harvard University. 

Participants were asked to watch a video of people passing a basketball and count the number of passes made by one of the teams. 

Sounds simple enough.

But here's the twist: in the middle of the video, a person dressed in a gorilla suit walks right into the scene, beats their chest, and then walks off. 

Surprisingly, most of the people who watched the video completely missed seeing the gorilla, even though he was in plain sight for nine seconds.

How is this even possible? Upon watching it a second time, not so zoned-in on one thing, participants wondered how they’d missed him at all. 

The researchers called this phenomenon "inattentional blindness."

Okay, so now let me make my own weird connection here, even if this doesn’t really apply to this science. 

Our focus shapes our perception, and our perception shapes our experiences, right?

In our lives, especially at home, I think, it's easy to become blind to our stories. 

Not because we aren’t paying attention, not because we’re looking the other way. 

We’re here, we’re tuned in, and sometimes we still miss it. 

There are moments when I become so focused on specific tasks or problems in parenting that I become blind to my own life.

It's like I’m looking at the world through a narrow lens, missing out on the beautiful details happening right in front of me. 

The beauty of my life; a toddler wanting to climb into my lap being a precious moment for connection—and I miss it. 😭

I miss the giant gorilla (of beauty or goodness) in the middle of the room because of my hyper-fixation on the house being unraveled again, or the attitude issues we’re working on. 

It’s easy to get so caught up in the moment or the hard mixed up in it all, we miss the blessings happening right here, right now.

There's something magical about having someone from the outside offer a fresh perspective on our lives.

Having someone looking in can be so helpful… But we’ve primed ourselves to be annoyed by it.

The stranger in the grocery store telling us to savor every moment becomes a villain, because don’t they know just how freaking hard it is to be a mom and that not every moment is worth savoring? Don’t they know some moments we’re just focused on getting through?

Their perspective on our lives being beautiful, and worth remembering, and savoring, down to the very minute frustrates us. 

Because we’re looking at our lives, and we just don’t see a damn thing in this moment at the grocery store with tiny children to be savoring.

But… both can be true. It’s the same story. It’s the same moment.

A stranger or friend calling out the goodness they see, calling on us to love it— they're not trying to invalidate our struggles; rather, they're showing a different perspective, a view from the outside by someone not so closely counting the passes.

As I reflect on my friendships, the books I read, the podcasts I listen to, music I enjoy… I see how thankful I should be for the great value these perspective-shifters add to my life.

They come in all those forms and more and are constantly giving me reminders to look again at my own life.

I’m grateful that when I’m discouraged, I can lean on others for fresh eyes and attitudes on the world, on my life at home with my sweet boys.

And to the many comments I get at our local H-E-B, I say thank you, and I mean it.

Sometimes we need a little help seeing the goodness in the stories happening in front of us. 

It's okay if others think I'm a mess (God isn't concerned about others' opinions of me)

The hardest conversation for me to have the last couple of years has been around my sobriety. 

Not because I don’t like talking about it, but because I feel so many times I want to throw in a thousand caveats: all the reasons you shouldn’t think of me as someone with a previous drinking problem. 

I want to convince you that I am above it all. But that doesn't do justice to the journey, nor does it honor the growth and transformation I've experienced.

It steals the glory right out of the story. 

A few evenings ago, Matthias and I sat together in a dark restaurant. The white tablecloth on our small round table already stained from our well enjoyed meal. Filet for me, ribeye for him. 

We lingered there with our drinks of choice, since there was no way we’d be able to eat dessert after that dinner. 

A decaf amerincao in my hands, an international red in his. I laughed, “I’d drink that if it didn’t lead me to wanting to drink every red in this restaurant. I don’t have any self control.”

It was just a passing joke. 

To my surprise, his response was more serious than I expected. “But it’s not a self control thing. You have so much of that. It’s something different, genetic.” 

We wondered aloud together if science would ever find that in people. If we’d ever be able to isolate some gene and alter it, change a persons DNA so they weren’t bent towards addiction.

He asked me if I had the ability to change my DNA, would I? If they could isolate this tendency within me and give me the ability to moderate like a normal person, would I choose that? 

Probably if you’d asked me a few years ago, I’d say yes. Change it all, take it away from me, give me the normalcy others experience. 

Now though, my answer is definitely not that. 

Choosing sobriety is such an important piece in my story.

To me, it’s a picture of what God is doing in my life. 

It’s an assurance to me that He’s interested in and mixed up in my story, because I’ve seen it. I’ve seen him. We shared conversations about the topic for years before I made my move into being alcohol-free.

I had to put down a piece of myself, and it felt like an end, but it was a beginning, and it was more beautiful than it was hard. 

It’s his graciousness that gave me the privilege of owning this story, owning this suffering and then moving on into freedom. 

This morning in church we sang,

“the cross bids me come and die and find that I shall truly live”

and in those words, in that picture, I saw myself in my struggle, not wanting to let a part of myself die, not believing that there was life on the other side of that death. 

I truly didn’t believe there was a better life on the other side.

The thing about giving things up is… it always feels like it’s just giving something up.

It feels impossible to believe that there’s something on the other side of laying a piece of yourself down.

It appears laying that thing down is the end of the story, but nothing just ends at sacrifice. 

Sacrifice is just movement towards an ultimate goal, not an end goal in itself. 

But it’s hard to see that in the middle of it all. 

It felt unfair. Why me? And why this? 

Why does this need to be my story? 

I didn't want this to be my journey. I wished I could easily quit drinking, that it wouldn't be so emotional and challenging. 

I thought it would be better, that I would be holier if giving up drinking wasn't a problem, if it wasn't hard, if it didn't feel like a battle. 

But now I realize, loving God and following Him isn't about NOT having sin or struggles.

An imaginary version of me who never struggled with obedience in this area is not holier than the real version of me who struggled with obedience, and then obeyed anyway.

I’m not a better follower of Jesus if I don’t need God because I’m already so ✨ good✨. I’m not better off not having to go to war against the darkness.

I used to value the appearance of holiness so much, maybe because I wanted people to see Jesus in me or maybe just under the pressure of a conservative circle that wanted to look like the “right kinds” of christians.

But I've come to understand that God isn't concerned about others' opinions of me. 

I'm not Jesus or the Savior people should be looking to. 

I am His child, living in surrender, answering his specific calls on my life. 

It's okay if others think I'm a mess or if they see my struggles.

It’s okay if people know I had to choose sobriety.

If I didn't have these battles, I might be consumed with my own righteousness, thinking I've got everything under control.

But I see so clearly in my adulthood, the great need I have for a savior, the one who loves me endlessly and chases me with His love. God's love for me is profound, and I'm just starting to understand its depth. 

It's endless and boundless, and I am overwhelmed by the realization of how deeply He cares for me. 

I’m so thankful to have a story where I can see God’s hand in my life. Where I can see obedience and I can talk about my experiences within bondage & freedom in a way that is relatable for some people. 

And if I have to be misunderstood by some or most to make a difference to just one, it will all be worth it still. 

If my story of struggle and victory can offer comfort or hope to even a single woman out there, wondering if she’s alone in her experience, then no shame or fear matters.

Sharing our vulnerabilities is a gift and an opportunity to find healing, connection, belonging with the right people. It is in our willingness to be open that we break down the walls of isolation or shame. 

For every person who misinterprets my words or misjudges my intentions, I remember that there might be someone quietly struggling, desperate to hear a story like mine. Because I was once that girl, wishing to hear stories like mine.

There may be someone yearning for the reassurance that there is life on the other side of laying yourself down. Hear me, friend: You can go to war with God and with yourself and in the end, surrender… and find that in surrender, is actually the victory. 

How lovely it is to live in a world where what is required of you...

I know why I want to write. I remember the first time I experienced seeing myself reflected in the words of a writer. 

Walking my dog, strolling down a cracked sidewalk, through an old neighborhood in Lubbock TX to my favorite park. Earbuds in and listening to a writer read her own words, I felt deeply connected to her. She didn’t know me, never will, but it didn’t matter, because she did know me. She was speaking parts of my soul out loud. She was giving words to vague knowings and feelings inside me. 

Words connect us. They show us how we’re alike. When we find the right words for the previously unspeakable within us, we can connect meaningfully with people who feel the same things.

I want to do that. I want to find language for those vague things we feel on the inside. I want to unearth the language for those thoughts we have that are similar and unsaid.

I want to share them with you so you feel understood too. And I’m trying to do it in the middle of random Monday mornings in my own home, wiping up sticky messes, changing diapers, talking about both God and Spiderman with my little boys. I’m making meals and making meaning out of this all and trying to scribble things down in between. 

And then I sit in my chair, later into the night than I intend to, piecing my thoughts together, hoping to make sense of all the bits of light.

My writing, like my thinking and my schedule these days, is less straight indoor corridor and more windy path through the woods.

It doesn’t always seem clear where we’re going together.

But that’s more true to conversations we have in our real lives, and I hope when you’re here you feel that.

The pace and pulse of conversation. 

I want my writing to call into the light the pieces of you and me that want to celebrate, finding joy and beauty. Life is hard and full of sacrifice, but I want to acknowledge the laughter and the in-betweens. I want to acknowledge the goodness when it’s here. 

I’m thankful that life comes in seasons. 

I’m thankful to know that the way my life is right now, as beautiful as it is, isn’t going to be our life forever. 

There’s a list in my phone of all the things I’d like to change in our forest loft (that’s the overly romanticized name for the 1200 sq. ft apartment we live in). And there’s also a list of all the things I really really love about living here.

One of those things is: the view. We’re second story and the view out our windows look into the trees on the property. They are beyond beautiful and I've come to appreciate that they are ever-changing.

We moved in late in the year and looking out our windows the land was bare; just a glance and you knew it was November, with a sea of brown branches and especially crisp wintery light.

And then our first spring here came and the trees came to life, blossoming seemingly overnight. Green, green, and green, with the sunlight streaming through breezy leaves warmly through our windows and onto our windowsills and floor. 

It seems to make the view more wonderful and worthwhile to look at knowing the seasons will bring changes. There is death and life right there in front me, a reminder that all of this, good or bad, is passing me by, day by day. 

Just as spring ushers in a fresh burst of green, I wake sometimes blossoming with desire to become better in all the things I love. 

And like winter with its barren land, there are times I’ve felt gutted. Unable to give or grow or do anything or be anyone worthwhile. Unable to move forward in any meaningful way, just waiting, hoping for the season to change.

It always does. These seasons of change call me to remember the impermanence of all things.

In childhood it seems to natural to embrace the present, and in adulthood, I’m relearning it. 

Because the present is the only place you can be, and because whether you love it or are just trying to survive it, it’s going to be gone soon. 

It’s why I try to do things well at home. 

Even in a season where the people who spend the most time with me are 10 months old, 2 years old, and 3 years old, I want to be excellent, I want to be a woman of character behind closed doors, working hard to love well and celebrate the fact I am alive by doing the things that make me happier: getting dressed, filling my diffusers, wearing that necklace. 

It all sounds so little, but when I elevate the little things and treat each days task like it’s important in its own right, I truly am happier. It’s my way of honoring this season, it’s my way to celebrate. Knowing soon enough today won’t be here to celebrate anymore. 

Life needs more of that, you know? Drink that coffee in your favorite chair and consider it celebration. Chop those carrots and think to yourself how lovely it is to live in a world where what is required of you right now, is making a meal for people you love. 

What a gift it is to have minds capable of considering these things,  and to have hearts that desire working out the words for what’s happening on the inside of us while we do. 

This definitely isn’t perfect and we have all our crap to deal with, but we know we’re going to do it together.

Families are a curious concoction of traditions, beliefs, and values, giving birth to their very own, unmistakable culture. 

Family cultures are as diverse as the people who comprise them. It's like a quiet force, guiding the way our families interact and relate to one another.

The thing about family culture is that if you don't actively decide what yours will be, life steps in and makes that decision for you. 

Some families build their lives together around laughter and teasing. Some families build their lives around words of appreciation and kindness. Some families are marked by disconnection, leaving scars that are difficult to heal.

No family is just one thing, honestly. But there are themes that run throughout our lives, and the culture of each family is usually something you can identify and see the influence of throughout a lifetime. 

Children don’t have a say in their family culture.  Some are fortunate to be born into the right circumstances, with loving and caring parents. Others are tiny victims of harsh words, or inattentiveness and carelessness. 

As I stepped into adulthood, I began to understand the power of a strong and nurturing family culture. While my friends grappled with disconnection or uncertainty, I felt a sense of belonging within my own family.

Growing up, even through years my dad was emotionally absent, my mom worked endlessly to create a culture of appreciation and life-giving words. Expressions of love were frequent and heartfelt through my childhood and beyond. 

I don’t want to give the impression there weren’t all the normal family hardships. There were so, so many hard years. There were hurt feelings, misunderstandings, fighting, and everything you’d expect from living and growing in the same home. 

But our family culture centered around putting each other first, speaking slowly when angry, choosing to fight for relationship instead of letting it get lost in life together. ‘This definitely isn’t perfect and we have all our crap to deal with, but we know we’re going to do it together.’

It gave us something to work toward collectively, and that work contributed to my sense of being loved and belonging. 

I’m realizing in most homes, it’s the mom that sets the family culture. (Even if she doesn’t intend to, or know what that means.) It’s mom’s attitude and mood that sets the tone in the home.

Family culture isn’t the same thing as a mood of course though. There are bad days and sour moments, but things find their way back to center more easily when there are clear relationship goals and shared values. We mess it up and get it all wrong at times, but we keep working for it together. It’s our guiding star in the night sky.

‘We choose to speak kind words.’

That doesn’t mean every word I’ve spoken in our home is kind. No, I suck and I’m human too. 

But I know what I am trying to model and teach my children and I can fail and try again. I can tell them clearly I’ve missed the mark and apologize for it.

I'm aware that my actions, attitudes, and behaviors are the biggest influence how my family interacts and responds to various situations. I set the tone for a positive family culture not by being perfect—because perfection isn’t real—but by being intentional and being willing to try again when I miss the mark. 

Matthias and I dream up the kind of relationships we desire with our children, not just in their childhood, but into their adulthood. What kind of relationships are we intentionally building? What are we saying is true for us?

Our target— the family culture we aim for and miss at times, but continue working towards— is one of overflowing grace, overwhelming kindness, words of love and adoration and celebration poured out frequently without expectation. 

We want to be a family that celebrates each other often. Not just the things we do, but the people our children are. 

I want to raise my kids in family culture of lightheartedness and generosity. 

I desire to establish an atmosphere of open communication where everyone feels comfortable expressing their thoughts and feelings. 

I want to create a culture where meeting together often to discuss important things feels normal. 

I want to foster a sense of unity that empowers my children to have a voice in shaping our family culture.

I know I was lucky to be raised in the family I have. I was lucky to have been shown what it looks like even in a difficult marriage, through rocky years, what choosing your family culture can look like. I had that example. 

But I see the moms out there who didn’t have that, and are choosing to do things differently. The ones disadvantaged from the start, hurt in their childhood homes— now creating a new and beautiful legacy for their own households. 

Without an example before them in their mothers, they choose to begin in their own homes, actively cultivating family cultures that uphold values they should’ve been protected with in their own childhoods. I see you. You're doing an incredible work, and I'm proud of you. Your work is so important. 

If you’re in the hard part, in the darkness, there is hope. It’s in the midst of brokenness, we discover the strength of the human spirit to heal.

The work isn’t large, because nothing we do happens all at once or in one large moment. 

The work is just one. decision. at. a. time.

Set intentions. Choose your values. Speak them aloud. Aim to live them out. Your family and the world will be a better place because of these choices. 

Bankrupt, on the inside

A single thought seems insignificant, just a moment in time. A single thought, in a single second, isn’t enough to shape the course of a life. A lone snowflake landing on the ground, easily overlooked.

But thoughts, when repeated (consciously or unconsciously) have a remarkable way of creating patterns. They become less lone-snowflake and more blanket-of-snow covering everything and changing the landscape of your interior world.

The power of thoughts lies not in their individual impact but in the collective influence they have, shaping our attitudes and behaviors.

It seems we’re building a world with less and less time for examining our thinking. The quiet patterns and whispers of our inner lives often get lost, drowned out by the constant flood of outside distractions. It's like the entire world has been swept into a hurricane of information, caught in the whirlwind of busyness and people are feeling spiritually empty, with their own thoughts and feelings neglected.

We’re bankrupt, bankrupt on the inside. Lackluster in the care of our interior lives.

How can we make space to pay attention to our quiet thoughts, or the Still Small Voice, if we aren’t ever… quiet?

Popular culture, social media, and the demand for constant engagement leaves us feeling drained and disconnected from our inner selves. The incessant noise drowns out the space for self-reflection and the opportunity to confront our internal bankruptcies.

Cultivating a rich interior life requires intentional effort. Leaning into built in moments of pause and solitude—or creating those moments— allows us to tune into our thoughts and thinking patterns.

It feels like most of the world is waiting to be told what to think about next, like next, do next. The constant need for direction and redirection keeps us eternally over-stimulated.

I think part of this has to do with the way we consume content—  it influences our desires and interests.

This doesn’t account for the whole of the problem, but something that comes to mind for me is… in 2023, we’re watching films, constantly. Long ones, yes, but also short ones. All. day. long. If you’re scrolling, you’re going to find little films everywhere. Dancing, talking, singing, teaching, making you laugh, making you cry, the little films don’t end. 

You know what isn’t interesting to watch?

Someone sitting in quiet reflection.

Prayer.

Someone on a couch in the early morning hours, journal or book in hand.

The calm, boring, or repetitive moments of mothering.

These subjects don’t make interesting little movies. That’s why you won’t find them much, if at all, in the films you consume.

How can you desire something you have no space for and never see practiced?

That’s something I love about photographs compared to film. Photographs can offer us moments of quiet contemplation. Both to look upon… and to have as we enjoy, or examine, them. 

Photographs provide space for appreciation and reflection. A moment of stillness.

Obviously, looking at beautiful photos is not a solution to our lackluster attention to our inner lives, but they can serve as little buffers to slow us down, bring us back to the present.

I think if we ask: how can we make space in the noise to pay more attention our inner lives? We’d find learning to embrace the pause, even with the content we consume, is a good start. More beautiful, artful photographs, less trending, meaningless video content.

While the world overlooks the quieter moments, how can you choose to be changed by silence?

What would change in your life if the content you consumed didn’t always point you to be doing more, but perhaps pointed you to less, pulled you into the present, stilled your racing mind, reminded you to pause?

I've come to embrace the gift of quietude, slowing down even in the way I am consuming content online.

And this quiet is making it possible for me to notice: notice the thoughts that I'm having, notice the affect they have as they create patterns in my interior life.

As a parent, I recognize the power of leading by example. I hope my example of trying, even though I often fail, is a gift to my children.

I hope my work in trying to embrace more awareness and reflection serves as a guide for them as they grow up and begin to navigate the noise of the world too.

I hope they really get to see, up close, our lives enriched by paying attention to our thoughts, and see the work and reward of living presently and attuned to the inside.

I want to honor the pauses built into our lives

Auden is almost ten months… and still breastfeeding. 

If you’ve been around for our story, you know the gratitude I feel that this is our story right now. 

The gratitude I have that this journey for us has been so easy… is immense. 

And yet, sometimes… sometimes, against my own will, I find nursing, ten months in… taxing. 

I prayed for this though. I hoped to nurse him a year, at least. So how is it that this also feels a bit like sacrifice? 

It seems in the middle of these days at home, any routine this common can begin to feel like it’s my whole life... for the rest of my life. 

So I’m writing this this right now as a reminder to myself to slow down and not rush through this moment in my mothering.

When Eliot, my firstborn, was a baby, I remember the weird feelings of guilt I had around the amount of sitting, rocking, and nursing, becoming a mom required of me. Sitting down peacefully is not something that comes naturally to me. (I’m working on it and have written about this often.)

Anytime Eliot fell asleep, I put him down. I was so thankful to have a baby so easy, I could transfer him to a crib and get things done. 

The breastfeeding though—hours a day of it— felt like interruption or a task to get through, instead of like an important task and meaningful moment all on its own to handle with care. Looking back, I have some sadness about how I felt then and how often I put him down to get on to the next important thing, like he wasn’t all it. 

In no way was it a lack of love, I believed, I think like most mothers do, that no one had ever experienced connection and love with a person like I had with my sweet baby boy. No way a love like this had been in the world all this time and no one had ever told me. It must be new, and all ours. 

Looking back, even only a couple of years removed, I see clearly the design God has for us mothers. Pauses, built right into our days. Opportunities to stop, connect, sit, be still, and enjoy the littleness of my person. 

I wish I had let my brain relax more often with my body in these moments of calm and closeness. 

Being truly present in the pause is a gift. A gift to yourself. A gift to your child.

One of my best friends unknowingly spent the last minutes she had with her son, nursing him at her breast. She didn’t spend that morning breastfeeding time scrolling or distracted, but she was connected, paused. Gazing on her little boys perfect features: his tiny chin, his full cheeks, his perfect and piercing eyes. 

Would that have been true of me? Without knowing I’d never hold my living son again, would I have been connected and present? Without knowing I would never nurse my baby again, would I have spent my time holding him being filled with adoration and gratitude? Or would I, thinking I had a lifetime left of giving my body up for this child, have been elsewhere? Not connected mind and body. 

I shudder at the thought, honestly. Because I know how often I left myself slip away from the present moment, assuming I have many of these normal moments left. 

I want to honor the pauses built into our lives. 

I want to honor Valor’s legacy by choosing to live like this moment is important, even if it’s routine. 

The moments that call us to sit together: whether it’s breastfeeding my son, or having lunch with my little boys, or that lull in the afternoon, where everyone’s a bit fussy and a bit sleepy,  and we just needs books together on the couch. I want to present for it, without working out future problems in my head, or being distracted by the continuous labors calling to me to keep up the household.

These typical moments, the ones that feel repetitive and perhaps a bit lazy, I want to lean all the way in. 

If you need me, I’m here, all here, at home with my family.

Who you are VS. the version of you in someone's mind

Imagine with me for a moment.

Imagine that every interaction we have with another person is like a brushstroke on a white canvas.

Anytime they see bits of us, conversations we have, or things learned about each other, there is picture being painted.

That picture is the image of the person someone believes we are.

But, no person is actually a blank slate, so when you let a little of yourself be known, it’s not like paint on a white canvas; instead, it’s more like graffiti in a busy cityscape.

It's incredible how varied and diverse this mosaic can be, reflecting the complexity of human relationship and perception.

The image of you in someone’s mind is only a shadow compared to the fullness of the person you actually are.

We have to embrace peace in accepting that we can't control how others see us. Even if we’ve only given them our bests, or ourselves with our best intentions, their perception is based just as much on who they are, as it is who we actually are.

It's a liberating thought: the notion that we don’t have to obsess over perfecting the picture others have of us, or tirelessly correcting every opinion someone holds.

Rather than seeking validation from others or attempting to control their perceptions of us, we can spend our time cultivating the qualities that align with our values.

Because you know what’s more fulfilling than being the best or happiest or most amazing versions of ourselves in others minds? Actually being the best and most fulfilled versions of ourselves in our real life.

This social media world caters to our desires to be the most thriving version of us in everyone else’s view, but if we spend our time actually being that person, we won’t worry about trying to convey that story in little squares and captions over the internet.

Our happiness and fulfillment don’t come by conforming to or trying to update the various versions of us in other people's minds, but living a life in real life aligned with our core beliefs, values, and aspirations.

And you’re allowed to change. You’re allowed to mess up and grow and get better. You’re allowed to be the villain in someone’s story or the wannabe or weirdo in someone else’s. Don’t let the picture they have of you in their minds affect who you really are.

We are not responsible for correcting someone's misunderstandings; our focus should remain only on grace and personal growth. If someone wants to see who you are, and who you’re becoming, they will. If they don’t, they aren’t your people anyway. Just keep giving your very best and don’t sweat how you’re received in the world.

There aren’t any secrets, not really

I have always felt the weight of secrets. I have been afraid to be seen, to be known. Because if people really knew me, they would reject me.

If they saw me for the pretend I am, or knew the mistakes I made, or learned about that thing I did, and it almost didn’t matter what season of life I was in, it always felt like there was something.

Even before I truly had experienced big secrets, as a very little girl, I was weighed down, by anything I thought was both the truth and hidden

The heaviness of untruths bore down on me, I think a product of living in a family where we were taught, there aren’t any secrets, not really. Whether or not people see the full story now, the truth always makes itself known, so live in the light, live as if your entire story is being watched, always choosing integrity, even in the smallest and unseen decisions

There aren’t any secrets, not really. That thought is terrifying, if you’re hiding.

And you may be hiding, whether under the hand of shame, or under the pressure of living perfectly in the culture you were raised in.

What would happen if you were truly known? Who could you be, liberated from the burden of your secrets?

In the truth, we can walk confidently, not confined by fear of exposure. We can acknowledge both our light and the shadows, knowing that they both make up important pieces in the fabric of our existence.

There aren’t any secrets, not really.

Know that your vulnerabilities do not diminish your worth. We can celebrate the specifically moving beauty that emerges when we allow ourselves to be seen authentically.

We can forge meaningful connections when we are true.

There aren't any secrets, not really.

You know who you are, in your moments of vulnerability. The shadows we attempt to conceal hold no power over us when we let people all the way in.

There aren’t any secrets, not really.

It is our imperfections that give opportunity for our character and integrity to rise.

In a perfect person, in a perfect world, there would be no use for strength, no beauty in resilience.

The stories of triumph, the ones that choke us up, the people that inspire us, move us— there would be no stories of bravery or overcoming.

in the moments you're seen, all the way through

when you are finally unapologetically true,

that’s when you forge connection

and it is truthfulness that holds the key,

for meaningful lives are born when we allow ourselves to be free

in a perfect world, strength and resilience would not be sought,

but it's through adversity's embrace that true growth is wrought

There aren’t any secrets, not really.

One thing to know about living in the light is, freedom is found in telling the right people the truth, not disclosing every shadow to every person who will listen.

There are stories, secrets that held me tight that I now share so others can witness the joy and freedom in living openly.

But there are other stories that belong to me, to us, in ways that require a delicate touch, privacy, and honor. I know you’ll have stories like this too.

I hope in your heart the faces of the people you are to be true to are appearing right now. I hope if there are secrets you’re afraid of, you find the bravery within yourself to be fully known.

Because you will be known, anyway, someday.

Because there aren’t any secrets, not really.

Seeing the story

I was squished between my sisters on the long gray couch in my moms tea room. It’s large enough for like 7 adult women, but with the babies also crawling around in our laps it felt especially tight.

We were chatting and goofing off when we were asked by a new friend if we spend most of our days together, drinking rosé and hanging out while our kids play.

The image in our minds was so preposterous—imagining us in some luxurious, duty-free day with children that were so well behaved and self sufficient they didn’t really need us. We had a good laugh.

But it got me thinking: I did used to view motherhood like that, in a way.

I’m not upset that someone might assume it’s all fun and easy, especially since we have each other for community.

I understand why others can’t comprehend the responsibilities. I don’t believe you really can know the challenges inside of motherhood, except for when you’re in them.

It seems, even on the other side of the most rigorous years raising children, it’s possible to forget.

Somehow, even being the oldest sister in family with eleven children, I completely missed seeing just how taxing being the primary caretaker for every physical, emotional, and spiritual need by a child would be.

Perhaps I had an especially sunny view because I was a big sister with a really good mom; because I had the fun of babies in my house, without the hardship of being primary caregiver.

I wasn’t attending to their physical demands and emotional needs; I could hold them and play with them and give them back when they cried, or I was bored, or I had anything else I wanted to do.

Until I had my own, I never understood just how many needs come with a child. How hard can it be to keep them alive? Just keep them entertained,  fed, and put them to bed on time. Need a break? Take them to the pool. 😂

I had an imaginary version of myself with four young children, reading books without interruption, a home without fighting, enjoying meals at the table with everybody actually sitting on their bottoms— and that not being a total fight. Oh, and dishes that got done without always needing someone to do them. It was a great dream. 😜

For some reason I pictured motherhood as my childless life… with extra people. I missed that it was going to take my life and turn it upside down completely. The amount I underestimated the task is… incredible.

It definitely says something about my lack of awareness, but I actually believe it says something more about the invisibility of the many roles and the weight of motherhood and household care in general.

I asked for this role and I love it, it would be a lie though to say I was prepared for all the responsibility that is put on my shoulders alone, as the mom accountable to God for these children. I feel like it’s important to note here: I don’t believe hard things are the same as bad things.

When if feels like being up through the night or being needed by multiple little people every second is too much for me, I try get the larger picture of my life in view, it helps me see the romance and beauty in the midst of all the hard. In fact, actually looking at photos helps me with this. Seeing my boys in photographs, seeing how quickly our household is changing puts into perspective how fast this season is.

I still feel like that first time mom with a new baby, but I’m actually the mom with a 3.5 year old and 2 year old and almost 10 month old. When did that happen? The years are going by so quickly, though the days may feel slow.

I want to capture a full story of our life together. 75% of the time we spend with our kids in our lifetime will be spent by age 12. I already know that I’m living in my good old days. That I’m going to look back on this time and romanticize the years of being needed, holding littles, chasing toddlers, creating adventures in our home and on our land. I know I want to be able to look back and actually see, in visual stories, the life we created together.

It’s why I prioritize photographs. Not just quick or thoughtless snapshots, but storytelling in my iPhone photos. And it’s why I prioritize properly storing them so I can find them again in the future… a decade or more from now, when I know I’ll be wanting to relive this again. And I consistently print them so my kids can see themselves within the picture of our story now: see their belonging in our family in that special and meaningful way.

My days are full of mundane tasks, dishes and diapers and reading that book again for the 47th time, but it feels a little more important and beautiful when I can see it from the outside, and not just from the inside. I’m thankful I have a way to not only visualize our bigger story in my mind, but actually see it, in a real way, in photos.

My heart is drawn to stories and specifically stories in motherhood, both written and visual. I don’t really know how to help moms write better stories for their families, but I do know how to teach visual storytelling, and how to do it beautifully with iPhone. It’s why my heart was drawn to create the course Motherhood In Focus. I want to see other moms have the opportunity to tell beautiful visual stories in photographs of their own lives.

Photos that include them— even if they never have the money to hire a professional photographer, even if they never have the money to buy a fancy digital camera, or even if they do and never have the time to commit to learning it, or the time to pull it out in the middle of real life with children.

I have a lot to say about what’s to come, but instead of rambling on in my excitement, I’ll leave you with the words from a poem called The Last Time.

From the moment you hold your baby in your arms,
you will never be the same.
You might long for the person you were before,
When you have freedom and time,
And nothing in particular to worry about.

You will know tiredness like you never knew it before,
And days will run into days that are exactly the same,
Full of feedings and burping,
Nappy changes and crying,
Whining and fighting,
Naps or a lack of naps,
It might seem like a never-ending cycle.

But don’t forget …
There is a last time for everything.
There will come a time when you will feed
your baby for the very last time.
They will fall asleep on you after a long day
And it will be the last time you ever hold your sleeping child.

One day you will carry them on your hip then set them down,
And never pick them up that way again.
You will scrub their hair in the bath one night
And from that day on they will want to bathe alone.
They will hold your hand to cross the road,
Then never reach for it again.
They will creep into your room at midnight for cuddles,
And it will be the last night you ever wake to this.

One afternoon you will sing “the wheels on the bus”
and do all the actions,
Then never sing them that song again.
You will read a final bedtime story and wipe your last dirty face.
They will run to you with arms raised for the very last time.

The thing is, you won’t even know it’s the last time
Until there are no more times.
And even then, it will take you a while to realize.

So while you are living in these times,
remember there are only so many of them
and when they are gone, you will yearn for just one more day of them.
For one last time.

These are daily choices

You won't believe how ridiculously long our garden hose is. Seriously. 😂 The darn thing is 300 feet; it's a never-ending serpent of irrigation potential. Our current living situation is a bit unique since we're not living on our property where we'll eventually build our home, we're actually in front of it, on Matthias's parents' land.

Last year I had this vision of creating a beautiful garden, right in the very spot where our future home will be, however, there's no water source out there. We'll have to dig a well when the time comes, and in the meantime, we just have the longest hose ever.

It’s not a clear path from the water faucet to our garden. It’s a bushy and overgrown adventure through the forest and over a slightly falling chain-link fence. And to reach the precious faucet to get the water flowing, we have to navigate through bushes that cling to our clothes and scratch our legs. I’m always afraid some snake is going to greet me on this little journey.

Matthias has gone through with a machete and cleared a path for me a couple of times; when he hacks it away, creating a small path it an easy little adventure for a while. But then… nature does it’s work again.  Even when the path is cleared the land is eager to reclaim its wild nature.

My thoughts tend to be like that. Unruly and wild, needing constant care and a mental machete to whack out my negativity and poor thinking patterns. It would be so great if I could just decide once the kind of person I want to be and the thinking patterns that align with those values, but it isn’t that simple.

I consider myself an optimist, and I have big dreams and bright visions of the future. But… I'm not always naturally the sunniest person. My thoughts don't always dance with joy, and I don't always have the ideal attitude towards the many things life requires of me.

I've come to accept that being the person I aspire to be requires that conscious decision, repeated over…and over… again and again. These are daily choices. It's not my default mode to choose patience or radiate cheer, but that doesn't mean I can't become a patient person and have a joyful soul.

It just means I have to put in the effort, repeatedly. I wish there was an expiration date to this, a point in time where I could say, "By 2025, I'll have mastered it, and this will come naturally to me." That's not how being human works, right? And you know what? It's an act of love—for myself and for others to keep choosing better, even when it’s not my default.

By resisting my natural tendencies and actively working towards choosing better thoughts, I'm showing compassion to myself and growing in the process.

I know, with each choice I make, with each deliberate act of choosing the person I want to be, and thoughts I want to have, it does become a little easier. Like that path to the faucet… it’s easier to keep up… when we keep it up. And it’s harder to clean up when we go long times without caring for it. Seems to be that the same is true in my head.

Gotta keep up with this work daily.

I’m not scared to share who I am anymore

I’ve always been so hesitant to make my writing public. There are the obvious reasons, like knowing I’m not that great at putting together sentences, and that grammar isn’t my strongest subject, and I tend to overuse commas. 

But since having my own children, I’ve decided I’m allowed to be bad at things and that I’m okay with being bad at things. I’m allowed to be a beginner and I don’t have to constantly apologize for it. Watching my children see the world with fresh eyes, attempting every day some new skill they’ve never tested before; standing, walking, running, climbing, jumping, speaking, they are constantly adding new skills and it’s always the case that, at first, they’re really bad at whatever they’re doing. They don’t feel a need to impress us or apologize for not being a master on a first try.

Why do I feel like that? Somewhere along the way my people-pleasing self decided it was safer to not do something than to start and not be great it immediately. I’m allowed to write crappy essays while I try to find my voice and learn what makes great writing great.

But, if I’m being really honest, there are some other reasons I’ve been nervous to share my writing; like, I’ve been journaling a long time and, when I go back and read those journals, I can be quite embarrassed of the person I’ve been.

Writing down who you are in a moment, or what you’re really thinking, takes a bit of confidence; because it’s very likely that you’re not going to be that same person in a few years. And what if you’re embarrassed of the things you thought or said? And what if you shared those things with anybody who would read (or listen to) them?

I’ve been afraid of being thought of as a hypocrite for thinking something at one time, and in the future having an opposing view. It’s taking me time, but I am getting to the place where I’m not afraid that anymore.

I’m becoming OK with putting what I think out there, even though what I think may change in the future. I’m not letting fear dictate my behaviors. And I’m not editing myself to be the version of me I think anyone expects or desires.

Late one evening, Matthias and I snuggled together, enjoying a late night conversation in the darkness of our room. These are some of my favorite moments, and this particular evening he said something that has altered my perspective greatly: “I'm proud of you, Madeleine. You have a remarkable willingness to change and ability to change, more than anyone I've ever known.”

Those words hung in the air, mingling with the stillness of the night. In that brief instant, I felt a surge of emotions, a mixture of humility and gratitude.

Change… changing… isn’t a bad thing.

It took his soft and loving words to make me realize it’s not my character defect to not be the same person I was several years ago, but a benefit of being willing to change. And having any of it represented in my writing is a benchmark of that growth, not a blemish on my history to embarrass me.

Writing has compelled me to expose aspects of myself that I would rather keep hidden. At times, I find myself yearning to be a flawless embodiment of beauty and love, even though the reality is that I am likely messier on the inside than most. But I love the idea of owning my story, especially after hearing these words from Brene Brown:

“Owning our story can be hard but not nearly as difficult as spending our lives running from it. Embracing our vulnerabilities is risky but not nearly as dangerous as giving up on love and belonging and joy—the experiences that make us the most vulnerable. Only when we are brave enough to explore the darkness will we discover the infinite power of our light.”

Writing and sharing it is my way of owning my thoughts, opinions, and stories. And sharing my vulnerabilities - like negative thinking patterns,  and choosing to be sober - have both scared me and made me find a place I belong.

I’m thankful for that sense of being known, faults and all, and belonging anyway.

And I’ve discovered something rather unsettling

It seems I am hyper-aware of certain attitudes and behaviors. Like I have this internal radar with an alarm that goes off when someone drinks too much, talks excessively, or adopts an unnecessarily harsh tone. These particular annoyances and unkindnesses seem especially amplified in my mind.

And I’ve discovered something rather unsettling… The sins in other people that really rub me the wrong way, are usually so obvious to me because I have the same struggles.

Oof. The shortcomings that irk me the most in other people are usually just mirrors of my own issues. I’m no saint peering from a holy hill down onto the issues of others. Rather, I’m chief of sinners, especially aware of some specific sins in others because they are also my own.

That annoying habit my brother has? I do the same thing. And that character flaw that seems so distracting in that person? Oops, it turns out that’s my flaw. Deep down, I’m bothered about my own failings and I tend to see (or imagine?) them in others.

Our perspective on the world is shaped by our thoughts; in fact, my mom always taught that our perspective is our reality, but it doesn’t mean our perspective is true. hmmm. I don’t know how to tie those two thoughts together seamlessly at this moment, but it still feels worth adding. Our perspective is influenced by our own flaws and struggles, which can definitely distort our judgment of others.

Over the past couple of years, as I've become more conscious of my reactions towards others' attitudes and actions, I've been making the effort to recognize my own faults in those same areas. I've learned to extend grace and understanding because, ultimately, I desire the same compassion and understanding to be extended to me.

The truth is, most of the people in my life are genuinely doing their best, just like I strive to do. And despite their actions occasionally not aligning with their intentions, their motives are usually good at heart. And I am no exception. I, too, want my intentions to define who I am, rather than solely relying on my actions, because damn, sometimes I don’t act like the person I want to be either.

The whole self-awareness thing really kickstarted a much-needed journey of personal growth for me. It's like a light bulb went off in my head when I started noticing my own character flaws reflected in others. It made me stop and think.

Maybe I should take a closer look at myself and use this as a reminder and motivation to change.

What’s that verse? Pay attention to the log in your own eye, before pointing out the speck in others?

I love that the negative things I was noticing anyway are now turned into positive action.

When I dig deep and figure out what makes me tick, what attitudes or behaviors are holding me back, what unkindness I might still carry, and what I can do to break free from those limitations, I have the opportunity to confront my own weaknesses.

I love-as-much-as-I-sometimes-hate that I’m in the middle of the story. I find it encouraging to just acknowledge the messiness and accept that we’re all on a path of becoming.

My sister has worked for me for 3 years, & now shes leaving

Kate, my 3rd sister (of my 5 younger sisters) has been with me since Eliot was a baby. I typically avoid saying “she works for me” because even though she’s paid, she just feels like a sister, helping out. I mean— that’s literally what she is. She has helped carry the household load, one day a week, then two days a week, and, this last year, three days a week.

She’s in our home, helping change diapers, or wash dishes, rocks sleepy boys, make lunches, read books, whatever it is, Kate’s here for it. I couldn’t have imagined how wonderful it’d be having a sister love my boys like I do: going on adventures with them through our forest, snuggling them for naps, playing games, doing regular life together. It’s magical and bonding.

And now she’s leaving.

It’s good, it’s the next step for her thriving wedding & elopement photography business, but… I’m going to miss her.

I know most mothers get by without ever having help in their home. And I know that I’ll figure out how manage my time differently now that I won’t have extra hands on board, but I’m sad. Sad to be moving on from this special season with one of my closest friends.

From the time Kate started, I always knew we were living in the good old days. Her even having the availability to be here, the intimacy of our friendship since we are in the same home, caring for the same little people 3 days a week. It won’t ever be like this again. I will constantly miss her peaceful presence.

Kate‘s quiet spirit is an example to me. She exudes a gentle kindness that I want to cultivate in myself.

I know things will be different, so I cry a bit. But I’m also really happy, for her, and this next season in her career.

Change
Said the sun to the moon,
You cannot stay.
Change
Says the moon to the waters,
All is flowing.
Change
Says the fields to the grass,
Seed-time and harvest,
Chaff and grain.
You must change said,
Said the worm to the bud,
Though not to a rose,
Petals fade
That wings may rise
Borne on the wind.
You are changing
said death to the maiden, your wan face
To memory, to beauty.
Are you ready to change?
Says the thought to the heart, to let her pass
All your life long
For the unknown, the unborn
In the alchemy
Of the world’s dream?
You will change,
says the stars to the sun,
Says the night to the stars.

Poem by Kathleen Jessie Raine

I find those same, painful tears welling up again in my eyes.

My baby boy rested in my arms, relaxed and comforted while I fed him his first bottle. I studied his little face, my own pale & expression unmoving, while inside, I felt like I was thrashing around in my despair. Anguish, honestly. That’s what I felt, in my bones. How is this happening?

My tiny baby, my most important responsibility.

How has he been hungry for weeks, months, and I didn’t know each time he was at my breast yearning for nourishment he was greeted only with disappointment? How did I not know my milk was drying up?

Breastfeeding was difficult in ways I wouldn’t have imagined. Each time I cradled him in my arms to feed him, I found ugly feelings bubbling up: anger, frustration, confusion. Why is this so difficult? Why won’t he stay latched?

Emerson spent 4 months as a tender baby crying. When we realized that his needs weren’t being met, his warm tears stopped falling down his soft cheeks and instead, I was the one constantly crying.

How did I fail you? And so young? And in such an important way? His thinning limbs and face haunted me. The memories of his life shifted suddenly, I had a new lens to look upon on our time together with, and it wasn’t a story I could stomach. I turned over the thoughts, my nausea turning with them.

A mother, unknowingly starving her child, a child she loved desperately. Emerson cried out, literally, each day for help, and I didn’t understand, couldn’t understand. Instead, I felt lost, disoriented by this experience and these cries I couldn’t decipher.

I’m the oldest sister and second child in a family with eleven children. I know my upbringing affects my worldview, but there are some especially obvious ways having so many younger siblings has affected my life. I’ve noticed it most prominently in my motherhood.

I was 19 years old when my youngest sister was born.  I imagined this gave me an advantage entering motherhood, like I had a little more insight into how to handle life with babies, because I’d seen it up close; because I was an adult when my mom had a newborn. And in some ways, it did make for a more relaxed entrance into mothering.

Well, actually, that first week I did worry — what if I accidentally suffocate him while breastfeeding? Can I get this onesie on without breaking his arm?!

That postpartum anxiety settled down pretty quickly though, and we got into a routine that felt right. It felt… natural, simple. Motherhood had more responsibility than my previous life, but I didn’t feel nervous.

I didn’t realize I had a streak of naivety and arrogance. I had no inkling of how negatively it would impact my first two years as a mom.

I hope you’ll forgive my former self for her judgements, and that you know I share them while still carrying a bit of shame: I assumed when mothers couldn’t breastfeed, it’s because they didn’t try hard enough. They were quitters.

My mom nursed 11 babies into toddlerhood and it was so simple it wasn’t even a conversation we had. It was just natural, expected.

I believed it would be that way for me. Easy, not even worth talking about because it’s just our design. Why are people celebrating with “I made it a year!” breastfeeding posts?

When breastfeeding wasn’t what I expected, I was shocked— mortified even.

Back to back actually, my breastfeeding journeys with my first couple of boys felt like two distinct, tragic stories, filled with a lot of fear, confusion, and a lot of tears.

A year before I had my own children at all, my sister-in-law told me she bought a scale so she could weigh her son before and after feeding sessions; so she could have some peace of mind.

I didn’t even know how to respond to that. After my many years in a home with breastfed babies, without the need for any tools of that sort, it seemed so preposterous— How would you not know if your baby was getting enough to eat?

Pride comes before a fall. Was this why my baby suffered? So I would learn empathy, so in my experience I would drop my own judgements and understand grace?

Emerson is two and half years old now and in church this morning, I found those same, painful tears welling up again in my eyes.

These are the thoughts that comfort me: God sees, has always seen, and will always see, my children’s needs. There will be times I fail, but He loves them even more than I ever could. Emerson is dear to God’s heart, as he is in mine. And I am forgiven for my failures. I never could be the perfect provider for their every need, I just had to experience that painful reality with a younger child than I would’ve expected.

So I’ll keep putting down the guilt I pick up. I’ll keep laying it down, picking up peace again, and trusting in the Ultimate Provider to be here to help me raise these children.

Above: Emerson, 2 months old

Below: Emerson, 4.5 months old.

Exploring the infinite from home

In our little home of only about 1200 square feet, we've managed to accumulate a collection of books that makes me really happy. I lovingly call our small place the forest loft, because it's cozy, and I’m a sucker for a good name. But it’s not that romantic of a home, and with five people sharing it, there's not a lot of room for stuff. We've had to be really selective and get rid of anything we don't need. That process has helped me grow as a person as I’ve had to get to the root of things: what do we love, what do we find beautiful, and what truly serves our family?

We’ve found books, good books, are something we’re not willing to easily part with. They are so much more than the little space they take up, they are portals into other worlds, opportunities to see the past and the future differently; they serve as windows to knowledge, imagination, and personal growth.

To make space for the many that we’ve held on to, Matthias designed floating shelves in the boys' room, and we had a custom bookshelf made for our main living area. We also have baskets of books in every room and a very happy collection on our fireplace hearth.

It seems the first time anyone sees that specifically they ask me if the boys mess them up or move them around all the time. Yeah, sometimes they do, especially Auden. But the boys are used to my collection of books and don’t think they’re that interesting compared to the many cool books that we have just for them.

Most of the time, when the hearth collection is shuffled about, it's me, Kate, and our friends who end up moving them around. I love how the collection on the fireplace never looks the same from one day to the next.

I love that you never know what you'll find in that basket under our train table that we use as a coffee table, because the books are being taken out, read, and moved around our home every day.

I want my boys to grow up with freedom and ease around books. I’d love for their memories of our home to include many moments of sitting alone or together, digging in, getting lost in story. I desire for them to have a childhood rich in storytelling.

What’s that quote? “If you want someone to know the truth, tell them. If you want someone to love the truth, tell them a story.”

I grew up in a home with a large library. I remember taking the organized books off their shelves and looking at them on the floor. I wouldn’t take a book off and return it. I’d take more, and more, and more, until the shelves were empty and the floor disappeared beneath the piles.

If my mom was ever upset about this, she didn’t express it. I do remember spending time re-shelving, but I don’t remember feeling like I was in trouble for using our books, even if I was disorganized and greedy in the way I went through them.

I never felt restrained around the books. They were ours, to adventure into, to enjoy, to learn from, to care for.

I felt some ownership of them. I believe this is where my love of books was born. And that love of physical books has never left me, even though I’ve gone through seasons where I listen to many more books than I hold in my hands and read.

If I could read and do dishes, I would. But I can’t.

I can listen though. I can listen and enter into the authors world. I can build visions of my future when I read inspirational and encouraging author-mentors. Or I can leave my forest loft and enter someone else’s reality in fiction.

I can leave here, without leaving. And I always come back a little bit better, a little bit changed. That’s the thing about reading good writing and prioritizing living books. You don’t get to the end of them the same person. The right words or story leave a little mark, a little touch on the inside of you, and you’re changed, even so subtly.

some photos including our hearth book collection. the books are moved in the winter into our windowsills so we can use the fireplace.

I don’t have to be productive just because my kids are occupied

I have fought a toxic pattern of thinking my entire life. The thoughts go something like…

I  am as valuable as the work I produce, so I always need to be working, so I am always of worth.

It’s this pattern of thinking that has always made sitting still a struggle for me. If I am to sit, at peace, and truly rest, then I am not producing anything. And if I’m not producing anything… well, you can see where this is going.

So I’m up, I’m a flurry of movement, productivity, and decisions. A dear friend once publicly identified me as “the hurricane” and, unfortunately, the name really fit.

These last few years, specifically my years in motherhood, have been transformative for me in this area. All of sudden, with the birth of my first tiny baby, my flurry affected more than just me. I realized my inability to sit at peace was threatening to keep me from the most precious, quiet, and unseen moments in mothering.

I find it so much easier to extend grace to a friend than myself. Looking at their life from my vantage point, I feel like I have enough space to see the truth of a situation. Like… obviously you’re not a failure for having dishes in your sink from two days ago. Give your sleep deprived self a break for a minute, and soak up snuggles with that sniffly baby.

But I get so close to my own life, so close to the repetitive chores and endless work that is parenting, and I forget to zoom out and look at the picture as a whole. I can forget to how incredible this season is and that I spent many years looking forward to it.

Right now at this exact time, I’m a 28-year-old mother with three little boys. My oldest is only three. We got pregnant for a second time when he was four months old and then pregnant when that brother was 11 months old. We had spent 4 years alone in our marriage and then it felt like went from a family of 2 to 5 overnight. When Auden was born, I kept saying in disbelief

we have a one-year old, a two-year-old, AND a newborn.

we have a one-year old, a two-year-old, AND a newborn.

we have a one-year old, a two-year-old, AND a newborn.

Who in their right mind has that many children that close together?! (Well, we do, I guess, since none of the pregnancies were actually a surprise.)

Some days I feel like a failure, for no good reason other than I just woke up feeling that way. Other days I feel like a queen, managing all her tasks with incredible efficiency. But that’s pretty rare and when it does happen, that voice pops up. So I’m zooming out, I’m choosing to see the bigger perspective of my life and remember just how fast the season is going to pass.

Our routines aren’t perfect, but we put in the effort. Our house isn’t perfect, but it is home, and it’s a place we truly love to be.

I choose to remember that I’m never going to be a mom with just three boys, three and under again.

Things will change but the only place I can be right now… is in right now… so I need to choose to be okay with it.

I choose to love all of its beauty and accept all of its imperfections. I will accept that every surface in my house gets sticky within 3 hours of the boys waking, and I will lean into sitting still sometimes anyway.