I am she. And here’s how I know. I find this particular season of motherhood both incredibly fulfilling and inexplicably draining. I am guilt-ridden over feeling like my life is at any point in time either too much or not enough. I am both regularly on the verge of tears and too exhausted to partake in a good cry session. You will either find me obsessing over how much I love my kids or cursing their names under my breath. When my baby cries at night, my brain goes into one of two modes and both reveal themselves with a startlingly voracious growl—either, give me that baby right now (despite our mutual agreement mere hours before to give him time to settle himself) or give me that monitor so I can smash it against the wall so hard it breaks into a million tiny pieces. 

My sweet husband, either out of fear for his life or some saintly disposition, has done everything short of ship me off to Cancun to ensure my cup is regularly being filled. I told him I wanted to run again, so he signed up for a race with me and made sure I never missed a workout. I told him I had no place to retreat when he told me to take a break so he helped me convert the old nursery into my own private oasis of tranquility and inspiration. Yet I consistently find myself still grasping for more air. If I wore a badge in this season it would read “tired mom.” And maybe yours would too. 

I can’t pretend to know life beyond this stage, but I do know that my saving grace is not in longing for an easier season, but in actively searching for the bits of magic in this one.  

Maybe you know what it’s like to pray fervent middle of the night prayers that your child will sleep through the night or that their fever will break and they won’t be in pain anymore. Maybe you’ve felt the weight of hot water droplets pounding away your exhaustion in the shower after finally getting the kids to bed. Maybe you struggle to ask for help because you feel guilty needing anything in life beyond keeping tiny humans alive and happy. And because you struggle to accept that offer to go take care of you, you wind up regularly catching yourself mid-yell, finger pointed, eyes half crazed over something as trivial as a lego getting left out. Motherhood is hard, and we need to be okay to admit that.

You will cook and serve a thousand meals, most of which will remain uneaten, and all of which you will clean and put away only to repeat the process a few hours later. You will wake up a million times in the middle of the night to console bad dreams and relocate missing pacifiers and nurse hungry babies. And you will wake up again at the first light of dawn, expected to be rested and ready to take on the day. 

But then something happens. Your toddler learns to say I love you, and your big kid brings home a paper cut out heart from school for the woman of his heart. Your baby sleeps through the night, once, then for a week straight and you begin waking up with a few less eye crusties. I can’t pretend to know life beyond this stage, but I do know that my saving grace is not in longing for an easier season, but in actively searching for the bits of magic in this one.  

I am undoubtedly tired and there seems to be little end in sight. But I’m slowly learning how to admit that in a way that is constructive and beneficial for the people around me. Take the break, pray the prayer, hide in the bathroom for an extra 5 minutes, ask for help, forgive yourself regularly, and don’t feel guilty admitting that this is hard. It’s hard because it matters.