One Year Later

One year ago yesterday, I almost died.

That sentence still feels surreal. A little dramatic even. But true.

It happened on an ordinary day. I was in the kitchen pulling dinner out of the oven. My kids were around. Life was noisy and normal. Until suddenly, it wasn’t.

I had been miscarrying for two weeks. It was painful and emotionally exhausting, but I thought it was almost over. My body seemed to be handling it. I thought I was okay.

Then came the gush.

At first, I didn’t think anything was wrong. I actually thought maybe it was just the last of everything passing. I cleaned up and went back to dishing up dinner.

Then another gush. And another.

So much blood, out of nowhere. I knew something was wrong, but I didn’t know how wrong. Not yet.

I started Googling—How much is too much bleeding after miscarriage? I found mixed answers: If you soak through two pads in an hour for two hours, go to the ER. If you’re pale or dizzy or losing color, go in. But it hadn’t been two hours. My face looked fine. I told myself I was overreacting. I felt fine, just worried.

Then six pads in 45 minutes.

That’s when I knew something was wrong.

We went to urgent care, hoping we could be back before the baby’s bedtime. I told them what was happening, and they immediately sent me to the ER. In the car, my heart was racing. But I brushed it off as anxiety. I started to feel clammy…probably just nerves. I was short of breath…just panic, I told myself.

But when I got to the ER, a strange calm came over me. Almost eerie. I figured it was relief. I was finally at the hospital. I’d be okay now.

That calm? It wasn’t peace. It was shock.

As I checked in, I kept apologizing for the pool of blood I was leaving. And then the nurse took my vitals and in that moment, everything changed. Time sped up and slowed down. They rushed me into triage, then started calling codes to someone on the other end of the phone. I still felt oddly calm, almost like I had taken a sedative. I tried making small talk with the nurses as they put me in a wheelchair, still apologizing for the trail of blood behind me.

They wheeled me through a large door, moving quickly, telling me to hang in there. I was a little confused by that, but couldn’t make out what questions to ask. And then everything started to dim. My vision faded. I felt my body slumping. My hearing got muffled. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t hold my head up. I was freezing cold and desperately, desperately thirsty. It was a thirst I can’t describe. And then everything went dark.

I didn’t know it then, but my body was going into hypovolemic shock.

Later, the nurses and doctors explained: when you lose too much blood too quickly, your body starts prioritizing your most vital organs—your heart and brain. Everything else begins to shut down. That strange calm? That was my body rerouting resources. The thirst? A sign that my kidneys were struggling. The tunnel vision, hearing loss, confusion? All symptoms of a body doing exactly what it’s designed to do in a life-threatening crisis: preserve what it can, for as long as it can.

When they explained this to me, I was in awe and as I read more about it later I couldn’t help but think what an incredible design by God.

I woke up in a room surrounded by so. many. people. Nurses, doctors, on all sides of me. I caught a glimse of my husband and wished I could talk to him. I was hooked up to what seemed like 100 different things…wires, machines, bags, none of it made sense. It seemed chaotic. Messy. And silent. I couldn’t hear anything. There was a doctor looking right at me and saying something to me and I couldn’t make out any of it. Then in a rush, all the sounds came alive. Beeping. Loud talking. Drawers opening and shutting. Carts rolling. Machines whirring. And a doctor telling me to hang in there, that there was a lot going on. Someone asked me to lift my legs. I couldn’t. Someone asked me to move my arm. I couldn’t.

I looked at the doctor and said “I’m going to be okay though, right? I have five kids.” She responded “You’re in good hands. We’re doing everything we can to take care of you.” And then everything went dark and quiet again.

They estimated I lost 30–40% of my blood volume in under an hour. I had three blood transfusions. Multiple bags of fluids. An emergency D&C to remove what remained of the miscarriage, the cause of the hemorrhage.

At one point, they lost my pulse.

I remember floating in and out. Trying to speak but not being able to. Trying to stay conscious. Trying to participate, but it felt like I could only watch what was happening. The thoughts I had during those moments were crystal clear. And they were only about one thing:

My family.

My husband. My kids.

Not the places I hadn’t traveled. Not the dreams I hadn’t chased. Not the money, or the house, or the legacy.

Just more time.

It was two days before my oldest daughter’s high school graduation. Two weeks before my baby’s first birthday. And I remember thinking: I can’t ruin this for them. I can’t let my baby grow up without knowing me. I can’t go—not yet. I needed them to know how much I loved them. I needed to be here.

I think my soul begged God, please, just a little more time.

And he gave me more time.

But in the days that followed, I found myself minimizing it. Telling myself maybe it wasn’t that big of a deal. I questioned whether it had been as serious as I remembered. Maybe I was being dramatic. I didn’t actually die, after all. Maybe I had just played it up in my mind.

Then the hospital bills started coming.

Itemized statements. Long lists of codes.

Out of curiosity (and because I’m a researcher at heart), I looked a few of them up. And there it was, buried in the clinical language of insurance billing:

“Emergency lifesaving measure rendered.”

Over and over again.

No dramatization. No exaggeration. Just medical fact.

It really was that close.

And that reality washed over me like a wave.

This past year has felt like a slow exhale. A sacred unraveling. I’ve felt a sacredness in time that I never really understood before. I try to be more present. To linger longer. To pay attention to the small moments and the people I’ve been given. I don't always get it right, but I try to really see my kids. To listen better. To show up for the people who mean everything to me. Not out of obligation, but out of fierce gratitude and awe.

And I’ve found myself more honest. Less filtered. More me. I don’t want to waste any more time trying to be palatable or approved of. I don’t want to shape-shift or self-edit for the sake of fitting in.I want to be fully who God created me to be, because that’s the only version worth being. I want to be more kind. More forgiving. More gentle. More compassionate. I want to reflect God’s character more.

And I finally decided to write the book. What book? Good question.

I’ve wanted to write a book for as long as I can remember. But I always talked myself out of it. What would I say? Who would read it? What if no one cared?

But after what happened, all of that felt…irrelevant.

I’m not writing it for everyone else.

I’m writing it because God has given me something to say. Because every minute is a gift from him, and I want to use every breath He gives me to glorify Him. If He chooses to use it, to use me…I’m honored. But I’m not waiting on validation anymore.

I’m not here to impress.

I’m here because He said yes to one more day. And then another.

So I’m writing a book. I’m being present with my people. I want to walk closer with God than I ever have before. I’m asking Him to make me more like Him. To make me bold AND kind. To use whatever time I have for something real and impactful and eternal.

Because when everything else fell away, perspective shifted, and all I wanted was more time to love the people I’ve been given.

And I got just that. So I’m not wasting it.

And maybe that’s the quiet reminder I want to leave with you, too:

Life is fragile. More fragile than we think. But it's also a gift. More sacred than we treat it.

So if there’s something you’ve been waiting to do, someone you’ve been meaning to call, or a version of yourself you’ve been afraid to become, maybe today is a good day to start.

Because the things that matter most aren’t things at all.

When God Feels Distant

There have been seasons in my life when I’ve cried during worship, not because I feel so closely connected to God, but because I feel like I’m just going through the motions. When I whispered prayers that felt like they evaporated midair.
When I kept showing up, because I wanted to believe, but it felt like God had gone quiet.

It wasn’t that I was walking away. I just… couldn’t feel Him.

And in one of those seasons, somewhere between desperation and hope, I started reading the stories of ancient Israel. Not for a Bible study. Not to prep a teaching. I was just searching…for understanding, for connection, for any clue about what to do when God feels distant.

What I found wasn’t flashy or deep-theology. But it changed everything. There was a rhythm. A pattern I hadn’t noticed before. It showed up again and again when Israel faced silence, exile, wilderness, or fear.

They remembered. They gave thanks. They clung to the promise.

Or, if you like letters:
Past. Provision. Promise.

I didn’t set out looking for a certain formula, or pattern. I was just looking for inspiration from stories. I just wanted to survive my faith.
But once I saw it, I couldn’t unsee it, and when I started living it, something shifted.

Here’s what I mean:

1. Past: What Has He Already Done?

When Israel didn’t know what God was doing now, they looked back at what He had done then.

They recited their story and remembered what God had done:
The God who split the sea.
The God who brought them out of slavery.
The God who gave water from a rock.

They remembered because, honestly, at times, they probably forgot. And remembering grounded them.

“I will remember the deeds of the Lord;
yes, I will remember your miracles of long ago.”
— Psalm 77:11

So I started doing the same. I’d look back on my journals, my prayers, my seasons of rescue and provision…all the moments I knew God had moved, even when I’d forgotten the details.

It didn’t change what I was walking through. But it reminded me who was walking with me.

2. Provision: What Is He Doing Right Now?

Even in the wilderness, God provided. Maybe not the way they expected, but they always had enough.

He sent manna. Not a stockpile. Not a five-year plan. Just enough for today.

“Then the Lord said… I will rain down bread from heaven…
Each day the people are to go out and gather enough for that day.”
— Exodus 16:4

Some days, that’s all I could see too. Enough peace to get through the hour. Enough strength to make the appointment. Enough kindness from someone unexpected to lift my spirit for the day.

It didn’t feel miraculous. But it was.

When I started thanking Him for what he was doing, even the smallest things, my eyes opened to how present He still was.

3. Promise: What Has He Said He’ll Do?

And then there were the promises.

Sometimes Israel would repeat them back to God, not to remind Him, but to remind themselves.

“When you pass through the waters,
I will be with you…”
— Isaiah 43:2

I began doing the same. Whispering promises I wasn’t sure I believed in the moment, but that I was choosing to stand on anyway.

He will never leave. He is working all things together for good. He is coming again.

I held onto them, not as cliché answers, but as lifelines.

I tried it:
Past. Provision. Promise.
And holy moly…it worked.

Not like a magic formula. God didn’t burst through the clouds with fireworks. But little by little, I wasn’t unraveling anymore. My faith was strengthened.

I was anchored.

If you're in that place, uncertain, numb, wandering, I hope you hear this:

You are not alone.
You are not broken.
And you are not the first to feel this way.

Go back to what you know.
Look for what He’s still doing.
Cling to what He’s said He’ll do.

It might not fix everything. But it could be the beginning of feeling steady and more sure again.

And sometimes? That’s more than enough.

Presence in the Middle of Chaos

The other day, I had a rare moment of quiet. The baby was napping, two kids were at work, another was at a school play, and another was fishing with friends. Suddenly I found myself with a few minutes where no one needed me. 

So I did what any responsible, spiritually mature person would do.

I scrolled my phone.

Before I knew it, I found myself watching videos of women with perfect morning routines.

You know the ones. A slow, peaceful wake-up. Sunlight streaming through the window. A steaming mug of coffee, an open Bible, pages filled with delicate highlighter strokes. Thirty minutes of uninterrupted time with Jesus in a picturesque setting with no dirty dishes and breakfast in the oven before the rest of the house even stirs.

And there I was, in the same pajamas I woke up in, reheating my coffee for the third time, wondering if I will ever have that kind of day.

Because most days, my reality looks like:
Praying that God gives me control to hold my tongue.
Reading one verse before getting interrupted and then reading it again. Repeat cycle as many times as possible before giving up.
Trying to focus on God but remembering that I forgot to pay the water bill that was due yesterday or sign the permission slip this morning.

It’s frustrating. It’s discouraging. It makes me wonder what the heck I'm doing wrong and why I can't just get it together like everyone else.

I find myself thinking..."I'll have that same routine when I have a little more space."

Or more time.
More quiet.
More energy.
More focus.

We tell ourselves that someday we’ll be able to really grow in our faith—when life slows down, when the kids get older, when we finally have enough time to focus.

Until then, we settle for survival-mode spirituality.

But here’s something I’ve been realizing:

Jesus never taught about our spiritual lives.

He just taught about our lives.

He never separated faith from everyday moments. He prayed as He walked, taught as He ate, worshiped as He worked. He stole moments of solitude and silence to pray in between his everyday activities. He didn't have a special prayer room or spot; it was all woven together in his everyday life.

What if our lives, just as they are, can be places of deep connection with God, too?

What if spiritual growth isn’t something you schedule, but something you step into?

Not in a perfectly quiet house, but in the middle of:
A noisy dinner table.
A sink full of dishes.
A car ride filled with toddler chatter.

What if the longing you feel for more of God isn’t a sign that you’re falling behind—but an invitation to see Him in the middle of your real, messy, everyday life? What if that longing stopped feeling frustrating, like an itch you can't reach, but started to be an encouragement that God is truly there. Here. Now. 

If you’ve ever felt like you want to grow in your faith but just can’t seem to figure out how in this season, first, I get it. That's exactly where I'm at, where I've been. I'd love to share what God has been showing me in this season. I want to invite you into something simple, practical, and doable.

Presence in the Middle of the Chaos: A 5-Day Reset for Busy Moms

For five days, I’ll send you one short email each morning with:
A simple, powerful way to experience God’s presence in your real, everyday moments.
A practical challenge to help you build spiritual rhythms that work in real life.
A reminder that you don’t have to wait for quiet to grow closer to God.

It’s free. It’s simple. And my prayer is that it will encourage you in the way you see God in your everyday life.

Sign up here.

Because you don’t have to wait for a different season to grow in your faith. God is already here—right where you are. 

Don’t Let Me Set The Tone of My Home

I saw a post today that said, “Mothers set the tone of the home.”

And honestly? I just need to know who approved this message.

Because if that’s true, then my home’s tone is somewhere between a chaotic circus, an underfunded daycare, and an episode of reality TV that gets canceled four episodes into the season.

Listen, I love Jesus. I really do. But if you were to stroll into my house at 5:30 p.m. on any given night expecting some peaceful, Proverbs 31-esque glow, let me just help adjust those expectations.

• My toddler, standing on a chair like a tiny dictator, shouting “Chicken!! Fyes!!” which means chicken and fries and specifically a trip to Chick-Fil-A.

• The older kids alternating between negotiating with one another about who knows what and calling each other names (some I'm ashamed to admit and others I honestly don't know the meaning of, nor do I want to). 

• Me, deep-breathing like a half-trained monk while muttering, “These days won't last forever. Someday I'll miss the noise and chaos.” But really, will I? I'm still not completely convinced.

• A mystery mess that no one in the house created. (Strange how these things just appear out of thin air, right?)

But sure, yes. Mothers set the tone of the home.

If that’s the case, then the tone I have set is “barely livable chaos with an essence of holy resilience.” You know how La Croix has their flavors...an essence of lemon, grapefruit, etc. Like they basically just walk a lemon by the La Croix cans and call it flavored with an essence of lemon. That's about the concentration of holiness in my house most days. An essence. 

And I see the posts on Instagram and I read the blogs from other beautiful mothers who are waking early and turning on their warm soft-glow lights and popping a batch of French toast casserole in the oven before every wakes up. I've made French toast casserole. I KNOW how easy it is. I love the intention of creating a peaceful, soft home. I WANT to subscribe to that narrative and be one of those moms...the peaceful, glowing home moms. But I just can't. I do that on Christmas morning and sometimes a birthday here or there and that's about all I can muster. For some reason beyond me, peace in my house does not look like soft-lit family devotions and children who speak in gentle tones while complimenting my home-cooked meals.

Peace in my house looks like:
-- No one actively trying to injure a sibling.
-- A single meal shared without complaining about who's cleaning up.
-- Me, saying good night to my teenagers and heading to bed. Usually HOURS before they're going to bed.
-- Jesus, holding it all together while I try to keep my cool.

That’s it. That’s peace.

Here’s the thing—I get the heart behind “Mothers set the tone of the home.” I really do. There’s truth to it. But sometimes I think I confuse peace with perfection. 

I walk in circles, looking at one mess after another. I battle the growing laundry pile daily. I worry endlessly about my teenage children, that I haven't prepared them for life. One glance at my bedroom, the kids' bathroom, the kitchen, or literally anywhere in my house and I see a never-ending list of projects in our house that isn't remodeled and Pinterest-worthy. I literally just said today "I need our house to look like an Airbnb so I can keep it clean and have peace." But would that really be peace? Or am I looking to perfection for fulfillment?

If I'm honest, my goal isn’t to create some magazine-worthy, always-calm, spa-like environment where our children sit quietly, nodding in agreement with our wise words.

My goal is to create a home where:

• Jesus is present, even in the chaos.

• Grace is given, even when we get it wrong.

• Our kids know they are deeply loved, even when everyone is yelling.

So if your house is a place where you're trying to focus on spiritually thriving but it's also kind of a disaster, fist-bump. Solidarity.

We are the mothers in the trenches.
We are setting the tone of survival, laughter, and holy perseverance.
We are raising tiny and not so tiny humans, not staging for a Better Homes and Gardens photoshoot. Although, wouldn't THAT be fun??

And if the tone of my home is a little chaotic, mostly loud, with a touch of "Where is the deodorant I bought you three days ago? How do you already need another one?!" —then so be it.

Because at the end of the day, peace isn’t about the noise level or the aesthetic or perfectly chosen design. It’s about who is holding it all together.

And thank God, that’s not me.

Share this with a fellow mom whose house is a loud, messy, beautiful disaster. Let’s build each other up in solidarity.

Is My Spiritual Life on Hold?

There was a time when I thought my spiritual life had to wait. Or at least slow down...a lot.

Not forever. Not because I didn’t love Jesus. But because I just… couldn’t keep up.

I was exhausted. My days felt like one long loop of pouring cereal, wiping faces, refereeing sibling fights, and trying to keep tiny humans alive. I wanted to spend time with God—I really did—but I also wanted to sleep. Or at least drink my coffee while it was still hot.

So I told myself, I’ll go deeper later.
Later, when I wasn’t so tired.
Later, when I had more time.
Later, when I could sit with my Bible without being interrupted every 14 seconds.
I reminded myself that there are seasons, and this season is for serving my family.

And I really believed that. Like, this makes sense, right? It’s just not my season to be super disciplined in my faith. I’ll get back to it when life slows down.

But somewhere along the way, I started to wonder…

What if I was off base?

What if God didn't need me to have more time?
What if I was missing something?
What if He was already in the time I had?
What if I was already being developed...just reactively instead of proactively?

I think part of the struggle was that I had this idea in my head of what real spiritual growth looked like.

Waking up early.
A Bible, open on the table.
A steaming cup of coffee and a quiet house.
Thirty solid minutes of deep study, journaling, prayer, and reflection.
Afternoon meditation.
Weekly Sabbath day. 
Monthly day of solitude.

That sounded beautiful. But also? That wasn’t happening.

I have kids. A lot of them. My house is never quiet. If I wake up early, they wake up earlier. More on that later. My prayer life was more like, Jesus, please help me not lose my mind today and yell like a lunatic, and my Bible reading was whatever verse I scrolled past on Instagram before someone needed a snack. Or a ride. Or money. You know. 

So I figured I just have to wait until I can do it the right way. For now, God knows my heart.

But then it hit me.

God does know my heart, and my mission field is my home, and he does love the 30 seconds here and there and care about my desperate pleas in between sibling squabbles. 

And also:

God wasn’t waiting for me to have a perfectly structured quiet time.
He wasn’t waiting for my kids to be older.
He wasn’t waiting for me to be in a slower season.

He was already here. In this season. Meeting me in the middle of the chaos, not despite it.

Maybe This Season Isn’t a Detour

I used to think I’d grow spiritually much more after this season of motherhood, not during it. Maybe a little here and there because if there's anything you go through as a mom, it's the refiner's fire for developing patience. But as far as everything else...I'd just have to wait until a little bit later.

But what if that’s not true?

What if the exhaustion, the interruptions, and the constant giving of ourselves aren’t distractions from our faith but the very things forming it? What if showing up every day, loving sacrificially, and continuing when we feel like we have nothing left is spiritually forming us—shaping us into the image of Christ?

What if this season, the one I kept waiting to “get through” (yet keep coming back to)—was an invitation to know Him in a way I never had before?

I wish I could say this was the big epiphany I needed, and I became a super-disciplined spiritual giant overnight. Nope. I'm basically still working this out, but here's what I'm trying more:

I just… started talking to God in my normal life.

• Folding laundry- I’m trying to remember to pray for my kids while I separate their clothes.

• Driving to school pickup- I'll either play worship music, listen to a sermon or book that points me back to Jesus, or just talk to God like He's sitting in the passenger seat. (Which, honestly, is way less weird than some of the conversations my teenagers have with their friends. Who the heck IS John Pork??)

• Cooking dinner- Playing worship music or an audio Bible. I used to never play the audio Bible unless I was actively listening to it, which is a rare opportunity these days. But lately, I've been okay with it even just being on in the background. Random little phrases will pop out here and there in between the noise of cooking and the family and I kind of love it.

• Overwhelmed- Cry. Okay, I'm still working on this one. I tend to cry or shut down or get very snappy when I'm overwhelmed. I'm trying to flip that script and voice that I'm overwhelmed and need a break, help, or a minute to go read my Bible. I'll read and pray a Psalm and go back to whatever I was doing. 

It's not fancy. It's not perfect. But it's real. And it's intentional. 

Some days, I'm barely holding it together. I WISH I had time for deep theological study right now because I long to understand and know God as fully as I can, and for me, part of that is understanding as much as I can about all of it...his teachings, his character, history, culture, all of it. But I'm learning that while I might have to put a little pause on my deep dive into ancient cultures and traditions, I don't have to pause my spiritual formation. That's already happening.

God is already here.

He’s in the sleepless nights and the reheated coffee.
He’s in the deep sighs and the whispered prayers.
He’s in the moments I feel like I'm failing, and the ones where I feel His presence so clearly.

I don’t have to wait for a quieter season.
I don’t have to do more or be better.
I just have to intentionally face Him in the life I'm already living.

Late-Night Ramblings

Life is full of seasons. Cycling through various times in our lives, where everything looks mostly the same, but also very different in a million little ways. I've always felt more inclined to describe the different times in my life as seasons vs chapters or something else. I'm not sure exactly why--maybe because, as with seasons, there is so much sameness among the different. 

Anyway, I'm in a season right now, as we all are. And this season I'm feeling God calling to me. I'm feeling this pull toward him stronger than just previously. I want to know him more than I do. I want to experience him more than I do. I just want more. Here's the tricky part:

I'm a mom. 

A mom with a lot of kids. 

A pregnant mom with a lot of kids.

Try that one on for size. 

So that's what I'm wrestling with in this season. When I desire so deeply to wander into a quiet place on a hillside or in a forest or heck, in my bathroom with the door closed and no one calling for me...to find that quiet place and get lost in my thoughts, praying, worshipping, just being. God has given me this insatiable desire to read his word more than ever, to talk to him more, to write about him, to seek out others who are like-minded, to spend time just being with him. But he's given me this desire more so during a season of life where I honestly consider it a wild success if I showered, dressed in something other than leggings, and put on mascara on the same day. 

Apparently, I'm struggling with the logistics of how to actually fulfill this desire for MORE that God has given me. Not a bad problem to have, but a problem nonetheless. I can feel myself growing frustrated, which can't be drawing me closer to God, can it? 

So here I sit. Praying Psalms. Reading Matthew. Journaling thoughts when I should be sleeping. Maybe God kept me from sleeping to give me this little golden hour with Him while everyone else is asleep. Now I'm praying that he'll also give me a little gift of extra energy tomorrow. ;)

Ahh...the late-night ramblings of a pregnant mom with a lot of kids, a deep desire to know God more, in need of a shower, and just not enough time or scheduling discipline to fit it all in. 

Tantrums to TikTok

Balancing the Needs of Toddlers and Teenagers.

(Or at Least Without Completely Losing Your Sanity… No Promises, Though.)

I’m not saying parenting both a toddler and a teen is like being caught in a cosmic joke, but if the universe had a sense of humor, this would be it. One minute, you’re negotiating bedtime with an almost 2-year-old who is suddenly a human barnacle, and the next, you’re trying to make eye contact and connect with a teenager who only communicates in shrugs and sighs.

Both need you—constantly—but in completely different ways. And somehow, you’re supposed to meet all those needs while also being a functional human being with, you know, personal dreams, goals, and the occasional desire to drink a hot coffee while it’s still hot. (PS: Hubby solved this problem for me by getting me an Ember mug for Christmas and OMG it's changed the GAME)

So how do you keep the kids living and thriving and maintain a shred of selfhood? Well, here’s what I’ve figured out so far (spoiler: I haven't figured it out).

1. Accept That You’re in Two Completely Different Parenting Worlds

Toddlers and teens are basically the same species, just at opposite ends of the development spectrum. They both test boundaries, experience big emotions, and need snacks approximately every 14 minutes. More on that in a future post.

But while your toddler is sobbing because their banana broke in half, your teen is sulking after you dared to ask how their day was—and you're really not sure why. It’s whiplash parenting, and the first step to surviving it is accepting that your approach needs to shift constantly. One moment, you’re kissing boo-boos and singing Let it Go for the 18th time that hour, and the next, you’re asking what  "chopped hair" means (it's not referring to a bob, btw) and pretending not to be completely horrified by their TikTok feed.

Let go of the expectation that you can parent them the same way—because you can’t, and if you try, one of them (or all) will revolt.

2. Play Zone Defense, Not Man-to-Man

When I was little, the only sport we watched in our house was basketball. We were Lakers fans back then, but I've gathered that we are no longer Lakers fans. *shrug* Anyway, until I starting dating my husband, basketball was the only sport I knew anything about. In basketball, there are two basic defensive strategies: man-to-man (where you’re glued to one player) and zone defense (where you guard an area and shift as needed). When you have both a toddler and a teen, zone defense is your best friend.

This means:

• You don’t have to personally handle every meltdown—sometimes a well-timed sibling intervention, a Disney song on YouTube, or a snack can do the job.

• You can’t be everywhere at once, so prioritize based on urgency. (A poopy diaper? Immediate. A teen's request for money? Delayed as long as possible.)

• Let them entertain each other when possible. Yes, teens can be VERY helpful! A toddler idolizing their older sibling is a beautiful thing—milk it for all it’s worth.

3. Set Some Non-Negotiables (For Them AND You)

It’s easy to feel like you’re just reacting to everyone else’s needs all day, so having a few non-negotiables can help keep you sane.

For example:

• For the toddler: Naps or some sort of quiet rest time are non-negotiable. My older kids were amazing with napping and quiet time. They had 1-3 hours every day until they went to kindergarten. I kid you not. My toddler now, weeell...she's not that good about it. She would go go go until she passed out from sheer exhaustion. But even if she doesn't think she needs a break —I do. I try to prioritize getting her a nap as much as possible. Which some days means she naps in the car and I enjoy a cup of coffee and a book in the front seat, parked in the driveway.

• For the teen: Basic human interaction is non-negotiable. Eyes up here, darlin' and give me just a bit more than a grunt and shrug as a response to “good morning” and “goodnight.”

• For you: Alone time is non-negotiable. Often times for me, it's the 15 minute drive home after taking the older kids to school. Other days, it’s 10 minutes locked in the bathroom, listening to a podcast while pretending you can’t hear anyone banging on the door.

You’re allowed to have boundaries. You don’t exist solely to serve tiny (or giant) humans.

4. Let Go of the Guilt (Seriously, Just Drop It)

Let's be honest. At any given moment, you’re probably neglecting one of your kids. It’s okay.

The toddler will throw tantrums whether you’re giving them your undivided attention or not. The teens will roll their eyes at you no matter how hard you try to play it cool. The fact that you’re even worried about balancing their needs means you’re already doing a great job.

Some days, your toddler will get more of you. Other days, your teen will. And sometimes, neither of them will, because you’re going to take a nap while Elmo's World plays in the background, and the teen is left to their own devices (literally and figuratively).

You are one human. Give yourself grace.

5. Find the Moments That Make It Worth It

Even in the chaos, there are these little golden moments.

Like when your toddler climbs into your teen’s lap, and the teenager plays with her or reads her a book. Or when your teen randomly starts talking about their life without being forced. Or when you all laugh at something ridiculous together, and for a second, it feels like everyone is in sync.

Those moments are the proof that you’re doing something right. I hope. 

The Bottom Line? You’re Not Losing Yourself—You’re Just Evolving

Balancing the needs of a toddler and a teen isn’t about “having it all together” (because, spoiler: no one does). It’s about rolling with the chaos, keeping your sense of humor intact, and knowing that every season—yes, even this one—will eventually pass.

So grab your cold coffee (or ask for an Ember mug for mother's day), take a deep breath, and remember: You’re not alone in this. You’re doing an incredible job, even if it doesn’t always feel like it. And if all else fails? There’s always bedtime.

In the Margins

Motherhood is one giant game of multitasking where nobody wins, and everybody is crying. You know what I mean. You’re rocking a baby at midnight, humming a worship song in between desperate prayers for sleep, while simultaneously remembering that your teenager has their driving test tomorrow. Or you're making dinner with a toddler hanging off your leg and a preteen telling you every tiny detail of the drama that happened at school today. Somewhere in there, you wonder—where’s the time for God?

I get it. 

Everything in motherhood happens in the margins. Self-care? Squeezed in between naps and school pickups. Date night? Oh, you mean falling asleep next to your husband while watching a show you both gave up on 15 minutes ago? Prayer? If whispering “Jesus, help me” while breaking up sibling fights counts, then we’re all nailing it. *fist bump*

Lately I've been wondering---what if God is moving in those margins? What if the small, messy, unseen moments aren’t interruptions but invitations—holy, sacred spaces where He is quietly at work?

Maybe that's exactly where God meets us. In the margins of life, in every season (even in the chaos).  

What Are “The Margins” of Motherhood?

When I say “the margins,” I mean those tiny slivers of time between All. The. Things. It’s the moments we don’t schedule, the ones that happen when we’re in survival mode, running on coffee and dry shampoo fumes.

• Rocking a baby at 2 AM, whispering prayers because you're too tired to form complete sentences.

• Having a deep conversation with your teen while driving to Target or in circles around the Costco parking lot, because eye contact would make it weird.

• Reading a Bible verse on your phone between practice drop-offs, hoping it sticks in your brain for later.

Motherhood has a way of stripping away the idealistic version of faith—the long, peaceful devotional times and the deep, uninterrupted prayers—and replacing it with a raw, real, desperate faith that meets God in the in-between.

And here’s the thing: God isn’t only found in those perfect, quiet moments we long for. He meets us in the middle of the chaos too.

God Moves in the Small Moments

We tend to think that if something isn’t big and dramatic, it doesn’t matter. But God has a different way of working. Some of His greatest miracles happened in the quiet, unseen places.

1 Kings 19:11-12 – When Elijah was exhausted, afraid, and looking for God in the big, loud displays of power (wind, earthquake, fire), God showed up in a gentle whisper.

Zechariah 4:10 – “Do not despise these small beginnings…” Because small things in God’s hands become powerful things.

Matthew 14:13-21 – Jesus multiplied what seemed small and insignificant (five loaves and two fish) to do something incredible and miraculous.

Just because a moment feels small doesn’t mean it’s insignificant to God. Sometimes, the most ordinary moments—like holding a sleeping baby or comforting a stressed-out teen—are the most holy.

Noticing & Trusting God in the Margins

So if God is already present in the margins, how do we start seeing Him there? Here are three things I'm trying to do to see Him more:

1. Redefine What "Quiet Time" with God Looks Like

I've learned that if I wait for an hour of uninterrupted prayer time to connect with God…well, I'll be waiting until my kids are all grown and raising their own babies. Instead, I'm trying to live out my faith, including my quiet time with God, right in the middle of real life.

Pray while folding laundry. (Lord, bless these kids who use two bath towels per shower twice a day, every day.)
Listen to worship music or the Bible App audio in the car. (Because sometimes the drive home from school drop off is the only alone time you get in a day!)
Talk to God throughout the day. (It doesn’t have to be fancy. A simple “Jesus, help me” is a powerful prayer. It also just tends to come out 25 times each week at least. *shrug*)

God isn’t checking a prayer-time stopwatch to see if we’ve clocked in enough minutes. He just wants time with us.

2. Recognize That This Season is Holy

The season I'm in—whether it’s babies and bottles or teens and college applications (or both, what?!)—is a holy one. It might not feel holy when you’re cleaning up spilled applesauce for the third time, but God is present in it.

Instead of wishing for “more time” to connect with God, ask Him to reveal His presence in the moments you already have.

A newborn season might mean breath prayers and lullabies whispered in the dark.
A toddler season might mean praising God for extra patience (and coffee).
A teen season might mean seeing God in the deep, unexpected conversations you never planned.
A newborn, toddler, teen, and adult child season might mean...well, I'm still figuring that out exactly. I'll report back ;)

We don’t need to wait for a different season to grow spiritually. God is right here, right now, in this one.

3. Keep a “Margin Journal”

One of the best ways to see God moving in your life is to write down the small moments where He shows up. I've done this for years in different ways, first starting out as a gratitude journal. It's truly been one of the most impactful practices in my life. Some things I may jot down in my gratitude or Margin Journal are:

A kind word from a kiddo when I needed encouragement.
A prayer answered in an unexpected way.
A moment of unexpected peace in a crazy day.

When I notice and write down God’s faithfulness in the small moments, my faith grows—because I realize He’s been there all along.

It's Not Failing. God is Moving.

If you feel like you're just squeezing everything in anywhere you can, that everything is happening in the margins and you're failing on all accounts---I get it. I feel the same way and I have to remind myself it's not failing—this is right where God is moving.

Faith doesn’t have to look perfect to be real. Prayers don’t have to be long to be heard. Time with God doesn’t have to be uninterrupted to be powerful.

Instead of waiting for "more time," let’s embrace the moments we have—because God is already at work in them.

What’s one small way you’ve seen God in your margins this week? Drop a comment—I’d love to hear!