A New Season

A New Season

As I write, I’m sipping a pumpkin spice americano with cream, admiring the golden leaves still holding on for dear life as the nights get progressively colder. Today sunlight streams in through the windows and a blue sky helps gratitude come easily. I’m painfully aware of how short this season is, how quickly the leaves will all fall and the afternoon sun set earlier.

It’s supposed to snow next week. Before I feel ready, fall will turn to winter and everything will look different. The landscape will appear more barren, the air will chill my skin, I’ll wear thick sweaters and long pants, and braving the outdoors will require more prep and motivation. 

Each new season brings an invitation to live differently than we did before. Change bids us to remember where we’ve been, to remember who we are.

Today I find myself in a different season than the one I was in a few months ago–and I don’t just mean summer to fall. The stage of my life that I never thought would end, spending all day every day with kids who needed my constant care, has begun its slow fade into my memory. It’s been a couple months now, but the milestone I’ve been dreaming about for years has finally arrived: My youngest kiddo started kindergarten.

For eight years of long days and short moments, I simultaneously treasured our time together and counted down the months until my babes were both in school all day. For this seemingly endless season, my identity naturally wrapped itself around my role as mom, sidelining other parts of me that didn’t seem to have a place in my life for a time. It was a stage as hard as it was sweet.

I didn’t realize that in the midst of it I’d forgotten who I was.

Five years ago this month, I began an experiment with writing and started a blog on a whim. I didn’t know then how much I needed this space to create, to share, to encourage, to process. I discovered that using words to share my heart made me come alive, made me feel more like myself than I had in a long time.

But then, life.

The past couple years brought a new season of deep struggle and pain that knocked me off my feet. Necessarily, I pulled back from writing on my blog both to allow myself space to process more privately but also because I didn’t have words to express what was happening below the surface.

What I didn’t realize in the midst of my journey through such a tender season was that writing keeps me grounded. Telling my story on paper allows me to understand my experience in a new way. Writing slows me down, creating space to find my bearings. It helps me to remember who I’m made to be. 

Beyond writing just for myself, sharing my story brings meaning out of the seasons I’ve lived. Offering a piece of myself to others reminds me that my life, my story matters. 

Your story matters too.

The season in which you find yourself is an integral part of your journey. Whether you can see it or not, you are being shaped by the moments you are living today. 

You might be in a season full of sweet moments with littles, where you’re savoring snuggles and grateful for this time. Or on a new adventure, building a business or earning your degree in pursuit of a dream. Maybe you’re anticipating a new beginning, or right in the middle of a stage you wish would never end.

But you might be in a season didn’t choose–maybe there’s illness or challenges at work or difficulty with a child. Maybe you’re longing for a relationship that hasn’t come or straining to navigate life with healthy boundaries. You might be caring for an elderly parent or searching for a job with financial stability or struggling with depression. You could be grieving the death of a loved one, the end of a marriage, the loss of a dream. Some days may feel like too much, like you can’t keep doing this, that it isn’t even worth it.

I’ve been there too. It’s so very hard to believe life won’t always feel the way it does right now.

But this is not the end of your story. This season may be harder than anyone knows, but a new one is coming. And you will be different because of it.

Some days have passed since I last wrote, and the snow is here now. As fall transitions into winter, I’m reflecting back on the past couple years with new eyes. I just re-read something I wrote two years ago, while I was still in the midst of a deep depression, fighting to persevere through one difficult day after another. Even though I couldn’t see it then, I now recognize in myself courage that was bone-deep, the grueling tenacity of a girl who wanted to give up but didn’t. 

My heart aches with compassion for that girl now, remembering how it felt like life would always be an excruciating struggle, like nothing would ever change. Miraculously, tediously, gradually that season ended. She survived. Looking back, I’m so proud of her endurance. 

Something about a new time of year invites us to take a deep breath, to remember where we’ve been and consider where we’re going. I’m eager to jump into something new, to run as fast as I can out of a stage so full of difficulty and into a new season brimming with possibility and potential. 

But I don’t want to miss the gift of remembering–remembering where I’ve been, how God met me, where I struggled, where I found victory, how I grew, where I persevered, and in the midst of it all, how I was transformed. 

Remembering my story helps me take hold of who I am–not just who I used to be, but who I’ve become. Remembering enables me to live with deeper courage in the season ahead.

Whatever season you find yourself in, may you receive the gift this moment offers, even if it’s buried beneath dead leaves or frozen snow. May you remember who you are and in so doing find the courage to share a bit of your journey with another. This is not the end of your story, but it just may be the beginning of a new season.

Confessions of a Struggling Mom

Confessions of a Struggling Mom

“Mom, we decided we don’t want you to work while we’re at school,” my daughter reported, little brother nodding in agreement.

“Oh really?” I asked. “Why not?”

“We like it when you’re home. We just want you to be at home all day, even when we’re not there.” Her words were matter of fact, their verdict not up for discussion.

Inside, I felt a wave of panic rise to the surface, growing into a tsunami that threatened to destroy my hopes and dreams and plans for how I will finally spend my time once they are both in school.

“Thanks for letting me know,” I told them, biting my tongue to hold back laughter or sarcasm or any other potentially hurtful response. “Being your mom is the most important job I’ll ever have.” And I meant it. Every word.

But it’s just as true that staying at home with my kids is the hardest choice I’ve ever made. I struggle with it every day. Hard.

Let me be clear: I love my children fiercely. My ability to stay home and make ends meet on a single income is a gift I don’t take for granted. It is a choice I would make again and again if presented the opportunity.

But it is also the most difficult work I’ve ever done.

Please don’t tell me how much I’m going to miss this season—how fast time goes and how I should enjoy it because before I know it they’ll be in college and how I’ll look back and wish they were still little and still needed me and all the other things I already know. Don’t make me feel guiltier than I already do for struggling.

I’m fully aware that these are supposed to be “the good ole days” and I’m missing them by wishing they would hurry up already.

I love my children deeply, yet I live in the tension between my selfish desires and legitimate dreams. My husband and I agree together that, at least for now, the best investment of the majority of my time is in caring for our kids.

And yet…yearning swells from the depths of my heart for greater purpose, for opportunity to impact the world outside these walls.

For the record, I have two of the sweetest cherubs of all time—they are funny and creative, energetic and entertaining, affectionate and independent. They are also little humans who test out boundaries and rebel against authority and lose control of their emotions frequently. (Kind of like me.) In short, they are beautifully unique, developmentally normal kids.

Brooklynn and Connley are my favorite little people on the planet. They teach me everyday about growth and curiosity, grace and unconditional love. They teach me about forgiveness and resilience, living generously and being brave, staying present and learning to play. They teach me that love is the willingness to put their needs above my agenda.

I know what you’re thinking, and I agree: my greatest contribution to the world is the way I raise my kids. You’re right. I whole-heartedly believe that what I’m doing—the mundane, day-to-day, menial tasks that make up most of my days—it matters for eternity. It is holy ground. There is no more important, more life-changing work that I could ever do for a paycheck.

And yet.

This God-given passion for leadership, for inspiring others to affect change in their spheres of influence? There’s not a place for it while I’m walking my daughter home from school.

My love of writing, of using words to tell a story that brings hope to those who might otherwise feel alone and unseen? It’s impossible to create when my kids are clamoring for my attention.

The way I come to life when I’m teaching others, encouraging them to live a more whole-hearted life? It’s hard to do with a babe on my hip.

That desire to be seen, appreciated, valued for my talents and contributions? It’s non-existent in the world of legos, laundry, grocery shopping and naptime.

And yet. I know this season is about so much more than mothering. These years—full of the moments that make up the sweetest, hardest, longest-feeling days—they are training ground for my soul. If I’ll let it, my struggle will make me not only a better mom, but a better me. I might actually find that:

Leading others starts in the hidden places where I lead myself. This season just might be where I practice prioritizing people over productivity, encouraging others over executing tasks, and leading myself over leading a team.

Creativity doesn’t happen without making space and time for it to emerge. I’m slowly learning to order my days to make room for writing, letting go of my image of a beautiful office where I can spend my days poring over words, and instead curating nuggets of quiet space where creativity can flow.

And just maybe the kind of teaching I most long to do, the teaching that builds a person’s character, inspires their heart, releases their passion—maybe my kids become a captive audience to lessons that need to be worked out in real life before they’re shared in a larger classroom.

Perhaps this season may be more about my growth in humility than my breadth of impact. As much as I long to make a difference out in the big, exciting world beyond this sometimes suffocating house, I don’t want to miss the character training parenting offers.

And I’m not just talking about training my children’s character—I’m talking about my own.

I don’t want to minimize the struggle. It’s a battle every moment to believe these days aren’t wasted, to reframe my time at home as an opportunity to prepare these little hearts to change the world.

But in the midst of it all, I ache for my heart to grow in humility, patience, and joy, even when it’s hard. I don’t want to waste the gift.

If you’re a mom who feels like you’re losing your identity as a real human with desires and passion and gifts outside of diapers and playdates and Candyland, know that you are not alone. There’s nothing wrong with you for wanting more in this often tedious season.

You are a good mom, and you are doing holy, important work. (Even on the days when it feels like anything but.)

And the bottoms you’re wiping, the laundry you are folding, the behavior you’re disciplining? It is changing you. Maybe in ways you cannot see today, but you are different than you used to be.

And you are changing the world. One snuggle at a time.

Creating Space

Creating Space

Since I stopped working several years ago, I’ve really missed my desk. It wasn’t particularly noteworthy or attractive–but it was mine.

A heavy metal beast, it had survived several decades traveling from classroom to classroom, the formica top peeling in places and brown circles from various cups of coffee stained along the edge. A wooden organizer provided a home to sticky notes, referral slips, and thumb tacks. It was functional yet uninspiring.

The desk itself wasn’t anything remarkable, but it was my own.

During my days as a teacher, my desk was the first place I’d go when I entered my classroom each morning. I’d drop my bags, pull up my chair, take a deep breath and mentally prepare for the day ahead. Whether checking email, designing lessons, or grading papers, this was my place to do the work I needed in order to be fully present with students for the rest of the day.

It was a space that kept me grounded, focused on my purpose.

Several years ago, I stopped teaching in preparation for the family my husband and I were planning to grow. Corey and I made the commitment to live on a single income so I could stay at home to raise our kids full-time.

Back then, the choice seemed easy. It was a decision we fully believed was best for our family, one we would make again if given the chance. Yet in the midst of dreaming about the baby we would soon hold, I failed to fully consider the cost of staying home.

I had no idea how much I was giving up.

I didn’t realize I was sacrificing my identity as a professional, the satisfaction of working hard all day then coming home to rest and recover, the freedom to offer others my full attention, the energy to dream and lead and create, or the opportunity to use my gifts and training to make a difference in our community.

It didn’t occur to me until later that I was giving up the space I used to be my best self.

If I’m honest, I’ve struggled through my first several years of motherhood. Let me be clear: I cherish my kids. While I’m humbled by gratitude for the ability to stay home with them, I also often find myself writhing internally within the limitations of this season. And I feel guilty admitting it.

I would choose this life again in a heartbeat, the privilege of shaping precious humans all day, but it also chafes against the very core of how I’m wired to achieve, perform, and produce visible results.

My deeper struggle, though, comes from relinquishing an expression of my unique identity outside of the role that I play as mom.

It finally hit me a couple weeks ago–I needed a desk.

Not that it was ever really about a piece of furniture. I needed a space to intentionally pursue what brings me life. Enough of responding reactively to the external forces shaping my days; it’s time to proactively build rhythms that allow me to flourish in this current season.

So I pulled together random bits of furniture from other parts of the house, a table from the laundry room, an extra chair and lamp that wouldn’t be missed. Snagging a candle here and a basket there, I rounded up decor and repurposed it for my new workspace.

It has changed everything.

I finally have a venue to create, to sit still and undistracted, to write words that bring life; a designated corner to focus fully on the people I’m coaching; an uncluttered nook to organize my thoughts, prioritize my time, and strategize for the week and beyond.

More than just giving me a place to get stuff done, setting up my own space has legitimized my pursuit of the things I feel called to do.

Glancing at this miniature office in the corner of my bedroom sparks joy, not just because it’s pretty, but also because it serves as a reminder of who I’m created to be. A wife and mom, yes, gratefully so. But I’m also a writer, a leader, a dreamer, a teacher, a coach, a professional with skills and gifts that are worth investing in.

Looking at my desk reminds me who I am.

It calls me back to how I want to live: moving forward with intention, shaping the world instead of being molded by it.

It invites me to create space for what matters, things that otherwise get lost in the clamor of what’s urgent.

It beckons me to come, sit, breathe deep, refocus, and prepare for the transformation I crave.

It offers hope, a latch to unlock the door keeping me bound inside my current perspective.

It welcomes curiosity, allowing me to settle down long enough to ask the deeper questions, which will only surface when my inner turmoil grows still.

This space allows me to re-order my days so my internal priorities align with how I spend my actual moments.

As I sit here now, I’m choosing to leave other things undone for a time. An egg-crusted pan remains in the sink, our new puppy waits reluctantly in her crate, and text messages stay marked “unread.” But while those things linger, my soul comes a bit more to life.

I don’t want to look back and realize I missed it, whatever it is. May you also have the courage to determinedly pursue what matters most in your world, one space at a time. Your life is worth it.