Rise and shine, and give God the glory, glory.

I awake to a thumping sound. Over and over. It sounds like the rocking chair is hitting the wall. I grab the baby monitor. There she is—Lucy has climbed out of her crib and is rocking back and forth, holding her stuffies and blankies. Back and forth, back and forth.

I scoop her up, both of us delighted to see one another. She nurses, rocks, and climbs all over me at the same time—an Olympic sport I like to call gymnurstics.

Breakfast awaits. I open the fridge, setting the blueberries on the counter. She’s suddenly just out of sight. I hear her, but don’t see her. That's never good. I trip over the toddler bike and frantically follow the repetitive sound of a shampoo pump. Under Stella’s bunk bed, I find her, grinning ear to ear:

“Knees!” she squeals, proudly lathering shampoo all over her little legs—and her sister’s favorite stuffed animal. Yikes. Into the sink she goes. We scrub, scrub, scrub. Then she spies the blueberries, dumps them on the floor, and marvels at the magic of gravity.

What I’ve just described isn’t a parable or exaggeration—it’s the real first ten minutes of my morning. Just a tiny window into the whirlwind that was sure to keep unfolding all day long.

Some days with a toddler feel like living inside If You Give a Mouse a Cookie. One mess leads to another. It takes every ounce of patience, consistency, and love to keep choosing gentleness instead of anger. I try to model regulation for her little heart by practicing it myself (with varying degrees of success). It’s a marathon. And I need Jesus desperately.

In the middle of all this, small graces matter. For me, it’s my husband’s lattes—truly the best on earth—that give me something to look forward to as the day begins.
Because the mundane rhythm of snacks, diapers, and endless clean‑up can feel weighty, almost suffocating. Some days, my hope of surviving until bedtime feels like it hangs in the balance of whether my toddler takes a decent nap. Do you ever feel that too?

Living my dream.
And yet—can I say this? Am I allowed?...
This is really hard.

Learning from the Psalms

When I read the Psalms, I’m struck by how honest David was. He didn’t gloss over the valleys or pretend his circumstances weren’t painful—he named them. He lamented. He cried out. And yet, woven through his honesty was always this turning toward God: “But you, O Lord…”

For a long time, I felt like I couldn’t admit that motherhood was hard. After loss and longing, how could I possibly complain now that I finally held my answered prayer in my arms? But David reminds me that bringing my raw heart to God is not complaining—it’s worship. It’s saying, “This hurts, Lord. I don’t know how to do this without You.” That kind of honesty honors Him.

And here’s the truth: gratitude and struggle are not opposites. They can live in the same breath. I can be profoundly thankful for my children and still acknowledge that mothering them stretches me to my breaking point. God isn’t put off by that tension—He meets me in it.

If a dear friend who had prayed for a baby told me she was weary, I wouldn’t hush her or tell her to be more grateful. I’d sit with her. I’d remind her that just as God carried her through longing and loss, He will carry her through the long nights, the messes, and the bone-deep exhaustion of motherhood. And maybe that’s what He’s reminding me too.

A Different Kind of Friendship

Maybe what we need most in these hard, messy days isn’t quick fixes or silver linings. Maybe it’s friends who:

• Sit down and listen without rushing to “make it better.”
• Pray for us regularly, remembering that exhaustion is as real a burden as grief.
• Offer tangible help: drop off a coffee, fold a load of laundry, send a text that says, “You’re not alone.”

Yes, there’s joy. Yes, these are answered prayers. Yes, this is our dream come true.
But motherhood also stretches you to the end of yourself. It requires much of you—all of you. And in that stretching, our need for the Lord becomes more obvious than ever.

What If…

What if instead of dismissing our struggle, we allowed space for lament?
What if instead of rushing toward a silver lining, we pointed one another toward the One who sustains?
What if we reminded each other that gratitude and struggle can coexist—and that God is present in both?

Motherhood is worthwhile, messy work. It’s both joy and ache, prayer answered and prayer cried out again. And in every bit of it, we are seen, carried, and loved by the One who knows our every need and promises to always be with us.

Journal Prompts for You

• Where in your motherhood journey have you felt both deep gratitude and deep struggle at the same time? What would it look like to bring that honestly before God in prayer?
• Think back on a recent “messy moment.” How did you respond in the moment, and how might God be inviting you to see His presence even there?
• Who in your life might need a friend to sit, listen, and remind them they’re not alone right now? How could you show up for her in a tangible way this week?
• When you read the Psalms, which verses of lament resonate with you most? (Some to consider: Psalms 3, 13, 22, 44, and 130.) How can those words guide your own prayers in hard seasons?

Take a moment with these prompts—don’t just skim them. Pause, breathe, and jot down whatever rises up. Let this be space for honesty with God before you step back into the rest of your day.

And as you go, hear this: you’re not failing just because it feels hard. You’re not the only one overwhelmed by diapers, dishes, and tears (theirs and yours). You’re not alone. God sees you right here—in the mess, in the middle of the day you don’t know how to get through. He’s not asking you to muscle through; He’s promising to carry you. And along the way, may you catch glimpses of joy in the small, ordinary graces—because those are reminders that He’s right here with you.

Even as you live the dream you prayed for, it’s okay to admit: some days are just plain hard. And admitting it doesn’t mean you’re ungrateful. It means you’re real, and you’re not walking alone. Keep leaning into God, keep leaning into community, and remember that being stretched this much is proof of love—His love and yours—being poured out in the most ordinary, exhausting, beautiful way.