I. The Weight Behind the “Why”
A few nights ago, I was sitting at Bible study. To my left was one of my dear friends. She is currently walking through the silent, echoing halls of unexplained infertility. The doctors say nothing is wrong, which leaves her with the heaviest answer of all: It is just not God’s time.
I sat there, the woman with the ‘most’ in the room—six heartbeats that God has blessed me with—and I felt the crushing weight of the ‘Why.’
Why is my table overflowing while her chair is empty? Why do I get the ‘abundance’ and she gets the ‘not yet’?
The next day in the midst of the morning haze, the too-tired eyes from the too-late night, the ever-present feeling of “let me just make it to nap time” I thought of her. I realized I’m so naturally inclined to just survive my children. Make it to nap time, make it through the dinner rush, make it to bedtime. But that feeling of simply surviving my burden. I was being so ungrateful. The night before I was sitting next to a woman who would give anything to hear the pre-breakfast hangry cries that I was barely tolerating. I was looking at my life through the lens of ‘exhaustion,’ while she was looking at the same thing through the lens of ‘miracle.
II. The “Then vs. Now” (A Mother’s Memory)
Do you remember the you before motherhood? I do. I think about her sometimes. The woman with the scarred up-bringing. Raised by her dad and grandmother. A towering example of what a mother should be, and a mother who wasn’t that. I remember the longing for children. One day, I’ll have kids. And when I do, I’ll be the mother for them that I missed out on.
I remember decorating my first nursery. Sitting in the rocking chair in the quiet. Rubbing my belly that had swelled with the promise of my first miracle. I remember being so ready to give up my “freedom” to take on the role of “mother.” I remember singing to the baby in my womb because there was no other noise to fill the silence.
But then the silence was gone. And the reality hit. A tiredness I had never experienced before. That miracle is about to turn 11 years old. And the truth is… I’ve been tired for most of those years.
III. The Stewardship of the Season
The truth that is hard to say out loud is this: motherhood is the hardest, most relentless journey I have ever been on.
When I sat in that first nursery eleven years ago, I waited with a beautiful, holy naivety. I knew I was giving up my “freedom,” and I even knew I was giving up my sleep and my bodily autonomy. But knowing the sacrifice and going through it are very different experiences. It is one thing to theoretically agree to the cost; it is quite another to pay it, in installments of 2:00 AM feedings and 4:00 PM meltdowns, year after year.
To the woman still waiting, I want to be so careful with my words. I never want to dismiss the “not yet” by complaining about the “right now.” But I also owe you the truth: The struggle is real. It is gritty, it is exhausting, and it will break you down in ways you didn’t know you could break.
But here is the shift: The struggle is not a sign that something is wrong. The struggle is the work of stewardship.
Stewardship means taking care of something that doesn’t belong to you. These six heartbeats? They aren’t mine. They are on loan. And the “tired” I feel isn’t a badge of misery—it’s the physical evidence of a life being poured out.
I realized that morning, through the haze of the breakfast rush, that I was treating my season like a sentence to be served rather than a garden to be tended. I was looking for the “exit” (nap time, bedtime, next season) instead of looking at the “investment.”
Yes, there are women who would give anything to experience this specific kind of exhaustion. They don’t know the weight of it yet, just like I didn’t. But my job isn’t to feel guilty for having what they want; my job is to honor what I have by refusing to just “survive” it.
I have to stop waiting for the season to be “easy” before I decide to be “grateful.” Because the blessing of motherhood is still a blessing no matter how exhausting it may be.
IV. To My Fellow Traveler
I am writing this from a full table, and I know how heavy these words might feel if your chair is still empty. I don’t have the answer to the “Why.” I don’t know why my “Yes” came in abundance and yours is still a “Not yet.”
But I know this: your trust in the dark is a higher form of worship than my joy in the light. If you are in the waiting, please know that His silence is not His absence. He is building something in your heart that the “having” could never produce. You are not forgotten.
V. Choosing Presence Over the Rush
So, how do we stop the rush? How do we stop treating our answered prayers like items on a to-do list?
It starts with a simple shift in the “Atmosphere” of our own hearts. Today, when the “hurry” starts to rise—when the noise feels too loud or the mess feels too big—I’m challenging myself to stop and say: “Thank You for this noise. I remember when I prayed for it.”
I’m going to look at the little faces that are the answers to my prayers, instead of looking past them at my phone or my [hard-working kitchen]. I’m going to do the “annoying” tasks 10% slower, remembering that these dishes and this [laundry routine]are the physical evidence of a life I once only dreamed of living.
VI. Tending the Sanctuary
We aren’t just raising kids; we are stewarding souls. We aren’t just cleaning a house; we are tending a sanctuary.
It is 6:00 AM now. My [Mom-of-Many Morning Routine] is well underway. The sun is coming up, and the first “hangry” cry is about to echo through the hallway. Yesterday, I would have met it with a sigh. Today, I’m meeting it with a “Thank You.”
Because the blessing is still a blessing, no matter how exhausting it may be.
What is one part of your “answered prayer” that you’ve been treating like a burden lately? Let’s lay that weight down together in the comments.
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