I knew in my gut that something was wrong.

From the random day in April that my daughter started to limp to watching her continue to decline to the point where pain and fatigue became part of her everyday. Walking was hard. Running felt impossible. And yet I still had to push with all my might for these symptoms to be taken seriously.

“She probably fell.”

“She just needs some PT.”

“Let’s just watch and wait.”

“Didn’t she always have a little limp though?”

“An MRI would require sedation. Are you really sure you want to do that?”

Four months of watching your child continue to struggle and feeling powerless to stop any of it. Feeling dismissed. Feeling overlooked. Feeling such frustration that no one is acknowledging that something is really wrong here.

So I pushed and asked and sent messages and made calls and forced my way into the spaces that keep a wall between parents and providers and started asking what they would do if this girl was their own.

And so we had our MRI’s. We met with the specialist. And we learned that she has a rare, childhood hip disease that is causing her right hip bone to die. And there is nothing anyone can do to stop it. We wait for it to die so that it can begin to regrow.

We’re stuck in the hazy in-between that we’ve come to know all too well as we wait on what comes next.

I’m terrified but I’m also so proud that I listened to my gut. That I led with my heart. That I honored my mother’s instinct and that I wouldn’t back down. Because I do it all for her. For my baby girl. For the one who has never known an inch of an easy road but always finds the joy wherever she goes.

I went for a walk late yesterday afternoon with our sweet old dog, Francie.

It felt like a typical dreary, early spring day in March. The sky was dark and moody even in the daylight, the wind cold and bitter, the trees still barren of their color, the branches stiff and lifeless as they reached up towards the clouds.

It’s good thinking weather; when the world goes quiet enough that you start to notice the thoughts and feelings you otherwise keep buried deep inside.

I found myself watching the tree line. Thinking about how seasons change, how what turns dark always comes back into the light again, how love and loss are so deeply intertwined in this world.

How much we believe we can weather life’s storms on our own, and yet how often we buckle and break just as the wind turns.

I kept walking, one foot in front of the other while letting my thoughts go.

Then in the distance, I heard it. A sudden thundering crack. My head swiveled back towards the tree line. And just like that, a violent gust of wind came barreling through and I heard the cracking sound again. Frozen in place, I watched as this massive, wounded branch snapped right off a nearby towering tree. It happened so swiftly and so forcefully that it hit the ground with a powerful boom. Its impact nearly took my breath away.

I know what that kind of helplessness feels like, to lose a part of yourself that you can’t get back.

What happens to a tree when it loses one of its largest branches?

In most cases, the tree continues to stand tall. It begins to find a way to make up for the loss. It will instinctively start to grow differently, as to work towards making itself whole again. The scar, the reminder of where that branch once grew will forever remain, as a new branch will never grow in that exact spot again.

The tree will be changed; it will never be the same, but it will survive.

I started thinking about the resilience of that tree, and the journey that lies ahead of her as she steadies herself in the cool spring season, working from the inside out to make herself whole again. I started to realize that tree was no different than me; no different than many of us, really.

At some point, we may break a bit. We lose a branch. Then another. Then maybe another. We experience tremendous pain but can gain such incredible strength in the wake of loss. It feels like such a cruel exchange but one that has the power to leave us better than it found us. We find a newness inside ourselves as we heal. That forced reset helps us grow in other places and learn to extend new branches. There is so much good that can come from the hard.

And yet, even after all that, we still bare the mark of who we once were; what once was. That reminder of loss deeply etched into the very fabric of our foundation.

As I start to walk again, I force myself to try to recall who I used to be. A young, naïve, second-time mom who thought she had it all figured out. Who could never anticipate or know what was coming for her. Her second daughter would be born with thick thighs and squishy cheeks and several medical and neurodevelopmental complexities that would change the very fabric of her family forever.

That there would come a time when it would feel as if nearly all her branches were breaking at once and all she could do was stand there – empty, hollow, lonely, so very lonely. Even once the storms had settled, it took a long time for her to start to grow and open up again.

There is a deep part of me will always miss who I used to be - that young, naïve, about to be second-time mom. Before the branches broke, before my world turned upside down, before I had to rebuild from the inside out.

I know now that the breaking and the mending taught me that I could and would learn to grow differently in the direction I needed to go. That our scars are just a reminder of how much we’ve endured; how strong we have become.

I’m different now.

The truth? I like this version better.

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It’s a daunting and exhausting road to travel. But the company is good and we always seem to find joy, even in the darkest of places. Yet the trauma of this journey continues to bubble back up to the surface time and time again. When we’re on the edge of something new, when we hit a bump, when a new symptom emerges, when another well-meaning person reminds us again of what she can’t do that everyone else her age can do.

So, as I find myself here, on the shore of a new season, I keep being drawn back to memories of growing up near Lake Michigan. Every summer we’d make a few trips to the shore to bask in the glory of a beach day.

But the thing is, no matter how hot that summer had been or how thick the air was with humidity, the water seldom inched above a crisp 68.

It was always cold.

So cold that as you waded into the water it took your breath away.

At first, it was painful, like pins & needles or walking on glass. But eventually that pain gave way to a numbness; a surrendering of sorts and once that happened, you could wade in those waters for hours.

I’m realizing that’s how I’ve come to know and understand trauma.

How long will we feel the pain?

How deep does the numbness run?

How could we possibly have the strength to endure the swim?

Sometimes, it feels like it might be easier to just let the water swallow you up. Surrender to the weight of your circumstances and let go. But then you remember the reason for your swim, and you try to keep moving.

As it turns out, it’s the treading and the wading and the waiting in those waters that strips you to your truest self. To the bare bones of what remains when you feel there’s nothing left. It’s there, in that raw and sacred place that you must decide - will I sink or swim?

Sometimes you don’t feel strong enough to make that decision.

But I’m coming to understand that the swim, that trauma you walked through, that hard stuff had a purpose. What if it had to happen to awaken your soul to something bigger? And what if all the aching and throbbing somehow and in someway had the power to shape you into who you needed to be?

Who you needed to be to keep swimming. Who you needed to be for those you love. Who you needed to be to endure it all.

I don’t have all the answers. Raising a child with special needs leaves you often feeling like you have no idea what you are doing. Do I have what it takes? Am I doing what’s best for her? How hard do I need to swim against the current and how long will I need to hold my breath to get through the next set of waves? I just don’t know.

But here we are.

I have to just keep swimming. Because I know that there is good even in the hard.

And yet, it also felt warm, inviting, special. Knowing that all the women sitting with me were also seeking, growing, and trusting in something so much bigger than themselves made it feel sacred and deeply personal.

Truthfully, I sat on the edge of tears for most of the weekend and I can’t quite pinpoint why.

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In most of the sessions I found myself quiet, reserved, humbled. It’s important to share here that these are not qualities I would generally use to describe myself. But something inside me felt like listening was more important than sharing. So here I was, a fish out of water, dipping my toes into the mysteries of faith while acknowledging my sometimes-wavering doubt and finally coming to the understanding that those two things can coexist.

Faith and doubt.

In fact, I’d argue that they both show up in our lives every single day. Turns out that faith is a choice and the more we practice leaning into it and choosing it, the easier it becomes to push away the doubt.

My last session of the weekend was led by the lead pastor’s wife and was called Harnessing Your Emotions to Live Your Faith. The entire session focused on learning to pause in the moment and leverage our emotions, as raw or as angry or as broken as they may be, as an opportunity to respond and act in faith. She spoke about how much our emotions direct the way we respond to things – to other people, to our children, to the world.

She told us to close our eyes and imagine we were driving to work.

You’re running late and you just had a disagreement with your partner before heading out the door and then someone blatantly cuts you off on the highway and you’re immediately thrown into a tizzy.

You may let out a few choice words about the other driver, or you may try to take revenge and cut them back off at the next turn, or you may want to wave your first and glare at them coolly when you get the chance to pass. You may write them off as a careless driver, a person who doesn’t think of others, a person who is reckless, in basic terms, a jerk.

You may make all sorts of judgement calls based on one single incident, in one single moment, on one morning of someone’s life.

The truth though? And this is a hard one to swallow.

They actually might be just like you.

Rushed, late, stressed, pressed for time so much that a quick jet into the next lane might save them a minute or two and so they take it. We have no idea what’s going on in the car next to us. What kind of road they’re driving down, what kind of weight is saddled across their shoulders. Are they running late for a big meeting? A difficult doctor’s appointment? Their child’s first school concert? Did they get in a fight with their partner too?

We have no real way of knowing. And yet, it’s so much easier to make the judgement call and assume the worst intent because it somehow makes us feel validated in our own feelings. What’s harder is to stop, pause and respond in faith instead of anger or fear.

It might seem impossible at first. It’s something that takes practice. It takes discipline. Learning to build your muscle for empathy and compassion is a lifelong commitment. But how beautiful would it be if the next time that other driver cut you off, you said a quick prayer for that person that they would travel through the rest of their day safely, and take the time to slow down, in every way they can.

Maybe that single act would change the trajectory of your day and send ripple effects to those around you. God could use you, in that single moment, to spread more light in an often dark world. Who would say no to that?

I’ve had a few opportunities since then to really live this idea of leveraging faith instead of fear. It’s been in ordinary moments and day to day struggles - when the kids aren’t listening, someone at work throws you a backhanded compliment, you’re blamed for something you didn’t do, someone cuts in front of you in the grocery line. Sometimes I get it right and other times I still struggle.

But when I stop, pause and really think about how Jesus would respond; how he would want me to respond, the choice feels easier. There’s less room for doubt. I know what I need to do.

I get to have my feelings, but I can choose to act in love.

Elementary school and art projects. They just go together.

My girls seem to bring home school artwork at a record pace. I try to keep the best and toss the rest. The ones I keep find a home in two large bins in the basement, one for my older daughter and one for my youngest.

Occasionally I find that as I’m putting in the new, I’ll pull out a few of the old. Tears sometimes fill my eyes, or I laugh out loud as I see the growth and change in their little rainbow drawings and handwritten cards, right there in front of my eyes. It’s a magical thing – a precious record of their development that can’t be measured on a height chart or in a report card.

The other night I pulled out a painting my oldest had done at the very age my youngest is now (5). There was her handwritten name, in near perfect formation and penmanship in the upper left corner. I smiled.

Then I looked down to a colored drawing my youngest had just done, her name in the upper left corner, very hard to make out and missing a letter or two. Right there, in front of my eyes, was the difference I’ve been working so hard the last few months to try not to notice.

Of course, my girls are different; like many siblings often are. There are things we know – that my oldest is typically developing, and my youngest is medically complex and neurodivergent, meaning her brain and body works differently. And while I will always celebrate their differences, that doesn’t mean that I don’t grieve the differences that sting; like this one; like knowing it’s really, really hard for her to write her name. Like knowing it’s really hard for her to do a lot of things without help.

Maybe the dull ache in my heart is because there’s a growing gap that I know we’ll have to work harder and harder to bridge as time goes on. A gap between her and her sister, her friends, the world. All I can think about is how desperately I never want her to feel that she’s not enough. That she’s not as good or as smart or as capable as everyone else.

And so maybe that’s the most important thing I can do - remind both my girls over and over that they are and always will be enough; just as they are. Perfect handwriting or scribbles. Straight A’s or working hard to simply get through it, exceling at sports or just enjoying watching the game from the sidelines. All of it, no matter what it looks like, is always, always enough.

They are always enough.

The light whispers of the NICU nurses as they switched shifts between day and night; exchanging hushed mentions that they’d never cared for a baby like this before.

The whispers of the doctors as they made their rounds, reiterating to the team that the baby in W805 was a real rare, medical mystery.

The somber whispers of specialists as they asked their nurses to write in referrals to neurology, neurosurgery, endocrinology, gastroenterology, hematology and perhaps the most concerning - genetics.

The whisper of the neurologist who wrote ‘dysmorphic features’ on my baby’s chart as he examined her like a specimen and asked me in a concerned tone if I’d noticed yet that she didn’t look like my husband or I. That there was something I wasn’t fully seeing.

The whisper of the geneticist as he told me to likely prepare for the hardest road.

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Then the whisper over the phone once her genetic results were in that her conditions were incredibly, incredibly rare, not believed to be related to one another and that she is the only person they’ve ever encountered with both.

Those whispers were all so hard to hear. They burn themselves a place into the deepest parts of your soul and every so often, they come to the surface and begin to sting again.

But there are good whispers too.

The whisper of the pitter patter of her feet as she walked when they said she may not. The whisper of her little voice when they said she may not speak. The whisper of her singing along to her favorite song when they said she may be delayed.

The hushed, sweet whisper, of my beautifully rare girl saying ‘good night, mommy’ before she closes those big almond eyes. Those eyes that neither resemble my husband or I but hold the beauty of the world within them.

Rare is beautiful, indeed.

Over 300 million people worldwide are living with a rare disease. February 28 is recognized as Rare Disease Day and aims to bring greater awareness of the 6,000+ rare diseases, and the individuals and families navigating the complex world of living with and caring for someone with a genetic disease.

Seventy-two per cent of rare diseases are genetic.

In many cases, there are limited treatment options, highlighting the need for continued research and support for individuals and families affected.

It’s this beautiful jade blue color with an intricate knitted pattern that reminds me of something my grandma would have worn in the early 90’s. The fit is just right and always brings out the deep blue green color in my eyes. It’s one of those sweaters you reach for when nothing else looks quite right, or when you need something bold and bright to cheer you up, or when you need something that just feels like you. It’s like home…in a sweater.

I’ve had it for years and despite the wear and tear, the fading of that beautiful blue green color and the random pieces of yarn starting to pull away from the pattern, I just haven’t been able to let it go.

In fact, lately I find myself reaching more and more often for that sweater. So much more than I can remember doing last year or the year before that. That worn beauty is becoming part of the standard weekly rotation and it’s starting to show. It’s become what feels like my armor, the shield I hope will somehow protect me from feeling less than most Monday-Fridays.

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Honestly, I think I’m wearing it so often because I’m desperately clinging to a version of myself that is starting to feel lost to me. The version who’s confident, bold, and at home in her own skin. The truth is, I don’t feel any of those things right now. I don’t really feel like me right now.

See, my life is starting to feel like that sweater. I’m worn down, my creativity fading and I’m slowly unraveling piece by piece in a job that’s making me constantly feel smaller. It all started as a little tugging, a few hard to hear pieces of feedback that have spiraled into a series of deep tears that I don’t know can be repaired. Now, well now it seems, I’m nearly pulled apart.

It’s all the pressure. The deep-seeded feelings that come with being told you’re never good enough; never doing enough; never what other people want you to be. That you’re so busy pouring into others that you have no time left to pour into those you love most – your family, your babies, yourself. The imposter syndrome that takes over when you worry you’re not strong enough to lead. When you start to question whether you know yourself anymore at all. Whether or not you’re even the good person you always believed yourself to be.

It’s too much.

Soon, I fear there may be nothing left of that sweater; and nothing left of me, really.

So if the person I’m longing for is tied to that sweater and the sweater itself is falling apart, what do I do? How do I get back to being the girl with the bright blue green eyes, who isn’t so discouraged, isn’t feeling so lost? How can you stitch back together what has come apart?

It’s clear to me now that this sweater, this version of me, had to start to fall apart, so I’d have no choice but to make way for something new.

I realize that this is no longer about putting something back the way it was before. Maybe it’s about finally allowing yourself to be remade and reshaped into something even better?

Still holding true to her earlier beginnings but shining in the afterglow of a new purpose, a new sense of wholeness, a new version that’s better built for who she is right now. Who she wants and needs to be.

It’s so much easier said than done. I’m scared. But I know I need to try.

So, here’s where I’m going to start:

• 1. Cutting off and cutting out what is no longer needed.

• 2. Letting go of the weight and the heaviness of others’ expectations.

• 3. Living with more lightness.

• 4. Lessening the load – we weren’t meant to have to be everything to everyone.

It will take time. But I believe the hardest part is committing to change.

So here we are. Here I am.

It’s time to start knitting myself a new sweater.

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That’s where the bench comes in. We all know that feeling. The gentle tug of nostalgia, that twinge of memory when we see something that stops us in our tracks and transports us ever so swiftly right back to a certain time, a certain feeling, a certain moment. That’s what this bench at the zoo does for me.

It takes me right back.

We went to the zoo that day to try to escape. Elsie, my youngest daughter born with medical complexities, was still deep into her NICU stay and we all needed a break from the hospital. I walked around aimlessly with my husband and then three-year-old daughter who had just become a big sister.

Even though this was a place we visited often, it felt oddly foreign and unfamiliar that day. I was beginning to feel like a stranger inside my own body. Slowly detaching from the world around me, because my own reality and the unknown of it all felt to great a burden to carry.

I was so fragile – emotionally and physically. I told my husband and little girl to go on ahead and they could circle back to get me after they went to see the elephants, my big girls’ favorite. I sat down alone, completely exhausted and totally lost.

And as I sat there on that bench, just four weeks postpartum, I felt such crushing emptiness - an empty belly and empty arms as I watched other mamas walk by carrying their newborns, pushing their strollers, feeding their sweet babies on other nearby benches.

Tears started to well and I remember so desperately wondering what it was that I did or didn’t do to have to be sitting on this bench. The bench without your baby. The bench filled with grief and pain and fear.

So much fear.

The bench that feels like it’s ready to break. The bench that’s hard and cold and lonely. The bench that you didn’t think was meant for you.

I had such a terrible longing to switch seats. At the time, I would have done anything to trade places with someone else.

But the truth is, looking back, that bench was exactly where I had to sit. I had to let that bench break a bit so that I could learn to better hold myself up when the seat beneath me would start to buckle. See that bench was meant for me after all.

Months later I would get to sit at that bench, with my baby girl on my lap, taking a pause together as I hooked up her feeding tube so she could eat lunch. Did it look like I had pictured? No. But did it still feel wonderful? Yes, yes it did. And it turned out that bench was meant for us.

Even now, every time we visit the zoo and walk by that bench, I smile. It’s funny how an old wooden bench at the zoo will forever remind me of a time, a feeling, a moment where I didn’t think I could face what was ahead of me. Turns out that cold bench turned warmer, those creaky boards settled and it wasn’t so lonely anymore.

Grateful to have sat there. Thankful to have seen the view from that seat. Humbled by all those I met along the way who were sitting on benches just like mine. It was a hard place to sit, but there was so much strength to be found in the waiting.

That bench. This story. This road. We’re still just at the beginning.

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My youngest daughter, Elsie, who was born with a variety of medical & neurodevelopmental complexities, was loving every minute, like she always does. Squealing and squeaking with happiness, running, giggling, moving up and down and every which way. Now I should also share that Elsie’s little body feels everything BIG TIME and so her reaction to excitement is often squeals + giggles coupled with arm flapping and hand/arm biting and several other tics. We’re working on how to best support her and how to help her react to her excitement in positive ways. Baby steps.

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I started to notice a few other little kids watching Elsie intently, especially her excited reactions and they finally tugged at my arm and whispered, ‘Hey, what’s the matter with her? Why is she weird and crazy?’

I was so taken back by their questions that all I could do was slowly repeat what they had asked out loud and feebly mumble back ‘Nothing’s wrong with her. She’s just excited. She’s not weird or crazy.’ I could feel the tears start welling up in the corners of my eyes and I had to move away from the playground for a bit. A grown adult mother freshly wounded and brought to her knees by the words of other little children.

I see now how much of a visceral reaction I was having to these very likely innocent questions posed to me by a group of 5-year-olds. They were just curious. They may not have known better. I knew this. So, why did it still bother me so much? Would I have had this kind of reaction if some kid had said something like that about my older daughter?

No.

And then came the hardest part of all. I had to ask myself why is that? Is it because Evie, my oldest, is ‘typically developing’ and Elsie has her own path? Is it because deep down I still fear how the world may treat her? Is it because I know there will come a time when I may not be there to stand in the middle and defend her, to help others understand, to soften the judgement?

Yes…yes, yes. Yes, to all of it.

When I find myself overwhelmed by someone else’s reaction or question or comment about Elsie, I see that oftentimes the problem isn’t them. It’s me. It’s still me. Even after all this time of learning to live in the unknown, I’m still terrified. I’m still guarded. I still feel such grief for her. I don’t know if any of that will ever go away.

So I sit and pause and pray to the one who gifted me this beautiful soul. And I ask Him what I can do. And in the deepest corners of my heart, He speaks to me and I find comfort. There is something that I can do.

While I know I won’t always be able to step in between the hurtful comments and my sweet girl, I recognize that for right now, I can show the world how to treat my daughter by how I handle situations just like this. I can show them how beautiful, wonderful, and special she is. That doing things differently is something that can and should be celebrated. That excitement and happiness can take on all kinds of forms and that at the end of the day, one of the greatest gifts we can bear witness to is another experiencing pure joy.

Hand flaps, bite marks and all.

Fast forward to six years ago as I sat with my sick newborn baby cradled in my arms, I watched a Ferris wheel spin round and round outside the window of our 8th floor NICU room. The State Fair had started the day my girl was born, and we got a top-notch view of the fair in all her splendor from high above. I suppose you could call it a twisted kind of consolation prize or peace offering. If you can’t bring your baby home as planned, you might as well get the room with the sweet view.

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Every day it was the same thing. Me, baby girl, lots of cords, a rocking chair and staring out that giant window at the Ferris wheel. During the day, the sun would strike the metal of the wheel and cast shimmering reflections that radiated up into the sky. It was almost too bright to look at and sometimes it even hurt my eyes. At night, the wheel would come aglow with soft colors and its steady spin felt calm and peaceful as I watched silently from my darkened hospital room. But even then, even in all its beauty, I still found it hard to look at. Maybe it’s because at the time I felt the constant spin and turn of that wheel resembled my life. A larger-than-life reminder of my current circumstances. A carnival ride that I desperately wanted to get off. A constant spinning that was starting to take its toll on my head and my heart. I didn’t wait in line for a ride like this. But somehow, I found myself shackled to the seat, unable to unclip the buckle, terrified the ride would never end.

Instead I found comfort in dreaming up dozens upon dozens of stories about the people that must be riding that Ferris wheel. A young couple in love sneaking a kiss at the top. Maybe a proud mom sitting next to their brave toddler on their very first ride. An older couple reminiscing of days gone by and rides just like this one. I imagined all the stories of the people on that wheel as being happy ones. I couldn’t bear to think that any of them were also navigating the dark, and living in dark places like me.

Yet somehow, looking back, I think somehow that Ferris wheel saved me. As hard as it was to look at, it kept me going during those first days in the NICU. Those days that my daughter’s life seemed to hang in the balance as so many worked tirelessly to try to understand what was happening inside her little body.

The wheel never seemed to stop. It just kept going. Its speed was ever steady, and it never missed a turn. Like clockwork, the wheel always made it all the way around, back to a beginning, back to a new start, back home.

So maybe in some strange way, that Ferris wheel was my beacon of light during some very dark days. Maybe as hard as it was to watch, its rhythm kept me company as I sat all alone in that room with my sick baby.

And here we are, years later and that ride that I never intended to take, that Ferris wheel that I’m still riding, somehow, in some way brought me back to a new beginning, a new start, back home to who I was always meant to be.

A mother who fiercely loves her babies. A mother who often feels like she’s doing everything wrong and nothing right but keeps moving anyway. A mother who has somehow found comfort and steadiness in the most unpredictable of moments. A mother who is still sometimes grieving yet sometimes celebrating all at the same time.

And so I realize now that this ride, even when it’s hard, will be the best one I ever take.

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I felt so lost and so lonely but I smiled big for every picture. I fell deeply in love with my daughter while losing pieces of myself at the same time. Looking back now I understand how a season in life can be filled with so much happiness AND so much pain. I didn’t know that then. But that’s life.

I started that year so blissfully naive and hopeful as I awaited parenthood. I spent time in the messy middle of that year learning and growing and sometimes failing but always loving. And I remember ending 2016 feeling exhausted but happy and hopeful again too.

There are moments I’d choose to forget if I could and moments that were so wonderful I would go back in a heartbeat. Because that’s life.

And isn’t that really what life’s about; a coming and a going all at the same time. The good and the hard. The happy and the sad. To have one, you must have the other. To know one, you must know the other.

And now that I’m here, 10 years later, I think it’s the coming and going and the coming back again that make our stories worth sharing. Those hard moments wouldn’t have made my highlight reel 10 years ago. But they do now because they remind me how much joy can rise from the ashes even when we feel like there’s nothing left of ourselves at the time.

I know now that to leave out the messy and painful chapters is to leave out the parts most worth reading. The parts that leave you deeply feeling something that wasn’t there before. The parts that truly define who you are and who you’re becoming.

Because, that’s life.

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The older I get, the more ‘busy’ just doesn’t work for me anymore. Turns out I’m the most unlikeable version of myself when I’m too busy. too rushed, too over scheduled, too tired.

It’s become my go-to answer lately when people ask me how I am. “Busy” I reply, with a sheepish smile. As if busy automatically means good. It doesn’t. Busy for me, most of the time, means I’ve put myself into a position that makes me feel like I’m drowning in my own life. I’ll admit, it’s mostly my own doing.

But it’s also the world.

Do more. Be better. Try harder. Get the job. Get the promotion. Be the boss. Be the best mom. Take your kids to do all the things. Look good. Feel good. Exercise. Make real meals. Keep your house clean. And it just goes on and on.

There’s too many to do’s and it’s breaking me in half.

Sometimes I’m busy because I have to be. Appointments, work events, kids activities at school. But sometimes I’m busy because I’m trying to keep up. I don’t want to miss out on the fun; on the real living; on the going and doing. And sometimes I’m busy because it keeps me from having to feel things, really feel things like pain, guilt, worry, fear.

The thing I’m coming to realize is that you’ll never be able to keep up with that pace. You’ll never find happiness in the chase. You’ll never be able to outlast or outrun or out-do what’s churning deep down inside. Eventually, you’ll have to face it.

See I know that when I’m peaceful, when I’m more still, I find myself more easily focused on the things that really, really matter. I’m a better mom, a better friend, a better listener, a better partner, a better everything. Perhaps most importantly, I’m better to myself; better at processing all of those hard feelings and trying to use them for good.

So I’m going to try to dismantle the busyness piece by piece. One step at a time. There is no magic formula. No easy button to quickly cut the noise. Does it take hitting a breaking point? Maybe. Maybe I’m there.

Maybe it’s actually good. It’s time to start kicking my shoes off and slowing down.

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We were gifted the little table by my husband's grandmother shortly after our oldest daughter was born. It was the very same table my husband ate peanut butter + jelly sandwiches at when he was just a little boy. So, it was special.

Every morning my two little girls, with sleepy eyes and morning giggles raced over to the table, clutching their blankets and favorite stuffies. Sitting at that table in the morning light became their everyday ritual. A sweet one that I could bear witness to with my own sleepy eyes and a cup of coffee in hand.

Over the next few years the table endured lots of spilled milk and little plates of pancakes, marker bleeds and hardened playdoh pieces and every sticky thing you can imagine. The little table was loved, oh was she loved.

And now, there she sits in the corner of our dining room. A very physical reminder of just how quickly time passes. How fleeting our sweetest moments can be. How much joy can be found in the simplest of morning lights.

Now my (big) little girls, still with sleepy eyes and the occasional chirp of giggles wake and race to the cozy spot on the couch or to ask me what's for breakfast as they plop down at the kitchen counter.

The little table has since become a holding space where cannisters of beads can be set down between bracelet making projects, markers can rest before their next coloring and drawing session and the bedtime stories from the night before can be stacked before they return to the shelves.

She still has purpose, that little table, but it looks different now. She once held and cradled little bodies as they started their day and now, she's the keeper and holder of their treasures as they learn, explore and grow. Those girls are too busy to take a seat and stay a while. I suddenly realize how much this little table and I are beginning to have in common.

The truth is, every morning I still look over at that little table. Sometimes, when the house is quiet, with the light just starting to peer in, before my girls are awake, in the stillness of the morning, I can still hear those giggles and see those sleepy eyed babies sitting at that table.

And I smile.

The sweet mama in this photo, just a few days away from meeting her second baby, has a lightness about her; an innocence that I can no longer recognize in myself. She’s excited and hopeful, dare I say naive. She has no idea what’s coming.

I want to hug her. Tell her she’s stronger than she thinks she is. Remind her that good things and hard things can actually be the same things. But I wouldn’t tell her what’s just ahead.

Because it’s a road she’ll have to travel one step, one day, one moment at a time. There’s no way to prepare; she’ll have to learn how to hold space for grief and gratefulness; how to simply let life happen to her.

The experience will change her, grow and nurture her in beautiful ways. Her rougher edges will soften while she begins to build a new kind of armor. There is so much joy ahead of her but getting there will be a never ending struggle - an aching in her heart that she’ll have to learn to carry. It will never go away.

I know all of this because I was her. And yet, when I look back at this picture now, I realize just how much she is no longer me. I’ll miss her forever but I’m also so proud of the mother I’ve become.

So much of who I am now has been shaped by the unknown in my story. I wouldn’t have chosen this road, but I trust that God put me here for a purpose beyond my understanding.

And trusting in that is enough.