There are moments in motherhood that undo you—not because of noise or chaos, but because of the silence that follows words you never wanted to hear.

Recently, one of my children admitted to a choice that broke my heart. Not because of the act itself, but because of what it revealed—a deep, weary I don’t care.

And that, more than anything, is what aches the most. Because “I don’t care” isn’t rebellion. It’s disconnection. It’s the sound of a soul too tired, too discouraged, or too uncertain to reach for hope.

I wish I could say we talked and everything began to turn around. But we didn’t. We’re still here—in the silence, in the stubborn “I don’t care,” in the uncharted middle of a story I don’t know how to write.

I’m doing my best to stay calm, to hold space for grace, to remember that compassion often has to come before correction. I’m trying to see how growth—his, mine, anyone’s—often begins in the soil of mistakes. That this, too, can become holy ground for grace to take deeper root.

But it’s hard. I don’t feel equipped for this part of the journey. This feels like walking through the valley of the shadow—where love feels heavy and fear whispers, You’ll mess it up.

So I’m praying for courage to keep walking anyway. To keep my eyes on what is true and unchanging: that God is near, even here. That His rod and His staff—His truth and His comfort—will guide us through what I can’t fix.

I’m learning that motherhood isn’t just nurturing a child’s growth—it’s facing my own lack of confidence, my own fragile faith, and choosing to trust that He’s forming something in both of us.

If you’re in a similar valley—where your child’s heart feels unreachable, where your own heart trembles with doubt—you are not alone. This is hard. It’s holy. It’s the long obedience of love in the dark. And even here, even now, grace is still growing.

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🌿 Field Notes: Something to Carry

If you can, grab a journal or a scrap of paper. Let’s slow down and walk through this reflection—step by step, as we would savor something slowly and let it shape us:

1. Start simple. Name one small moment this week when love felt heavy or quiet. Jot what happened, and write a single word that lingers.
2. Add a layer. Where might grace have been quietly at work—in you or your child? What did the stillness show you about the kind of mother you’re becoming?
3. Take it further. Choose a gentle act of presence for the coming days: sit beside your child without fixing, light a candle and pray Psalm 23, take a slow walk and breathe a simple prayer. Write the one you’ll try—and when.
4. Hold this truth. When hope feels gone, whisper this to yourself: Grace is still growing, even when I can’t see it.

A quiet benediction: even here, even now, something tender is taking root.