Where I've Been
I’m sitting here staring at a thick layer of dust that covers the hard drive on my desk. I carved out this time to write because it has been nearly two months since my last post. I made the rookie mistake of nursing Willa before naptime because she promptly fell asleep in my arms and woke up as soon as I laid her down. And even though I turned off the sound on the monitor, I can still see her rolling around like a doodlebug out of the corner of my eye. Birdie is barking at the pesky cat who seems to have taken up dual residence in our yard and my 5-year-old is asking me to look up a grogu stuffed animal. If you are wondering where I’ve been, it’s here. Completely frazzled and overwhelmed. Grateful for the mess and the noise that keeps life vibrant and whimsical, but creatively void of inspiration and totally depleted.
On any given day, I break up approximately 3984 fights between my two boys, spend over an hour trying to get my 8-month-old to take a nap, fight for rhythms that feel impossible to keep, and make a zillion mistakes that warrant an apology to my kids. I feel guilty for complaining because I truly would not wish away a fragment of this life, but I also recognize that I am in this extended season of simply staying afloat. If my soul were a gas tank, it would chronically read just above empty. I fight for my health and sanity, to raise the needle incrementally with a hot shower or an early morning run. I carve out time to pray and get in the Word each morning, take my vitamins (when I remember), and nourish my soul with good books and good friends. My saint of a husband regularly checks in, asking how he can serve me when I know he is already at capacity and all I can think of is a quote I read in a blog years ago, “self-care is creating a life you don’t regularly need to escape from.”
I’ll keep waking up, continuing to fight for gratitude, choosing to see it all as the wildly undeserved blessing it is. Messy. Broken. Exhausting. Beautiful.
I don’t want to escape from my life. Truly. I love homeschooling my kids. I love creating a home that makes my kids feel safe, where my husband finds reprieve, and our community feels seen. I love having the freedom to write when I am able and take extended breaks when needed. I love having a baby girl whose smile could cure all of life’s sorrows. I love our rhythms and the way our days play out. I love Friday night movie night and Saturday Sabbath and Sunday night life group. I love co-leading the high school girls on Wednesday nights and home date nights with Matt on Mondays. I love my side hustle taking pictures of graduating seniors and sweet families.
Life is a gift, and I have the privilege of unwrapping it over and over again each day. Not only is life itself a gift; it is accompanied by new morning mercies and the grace to tackle every unexpected twist and turn. No, I have no intentions of wishing away the hard, because I know the good is intricately and inextricably intertwined. I can’t wish away the endless piles of laundry without wishing away the bodies it clothes. I can’t long for more time to myself without wishing away pivotal years with my kids who very much need me, and one day soon, won’t anymore. I am tired and tapped out by 8 pm every evening, but I wouldn’t trade the chaos for more quiet or more “me time” because I shudder to think what that would cost me.
So here it is, the good and the messy, the pure and the defiled, the satisfying and emptying season of life I’m in. Maybe Willa will sleep through the night tonight and I’ll wake up with fewer bags under my eyes and more patience in tow. Maybe my boys will play well together and I’ll have an afternoon of no fights to break up. Maybe in a miraculous fit of productivity, I’ll check every item off the to-do list for once and have enough time to write next week’s blog or squeeze in a 20-minute pilates workout. Maybe not. Maybe I’ll continue walking through each day, fighting the haze of another disrupted night of sleep, praying for grace to love my family well and steward the time I’ve been given. Definitely, it won’t be perfect or polished or all the stuff of my daydreams. But that’s okay. I’ll keep waking up, continuing to fight for gratitude, choosing to see it all as the wildly undeserved blessing it is. Messy. Broken. Exhausting. Beautiful.
And now I’m going to go hug my 5-year-old and tell him I love him and I’m sorry for losing it when I just needed a few minutes to write.
