An Open Letter to Myself

For this week’s Mom Motivation, we’re sharing something especially close to the heart—words from real moms walking through real life. This piece comes from Jennifer M., who vulnerably opens up about the quiet weight of motherhood, faith, and perseverance. Her story is a reminder that even in the unseen and the uncertain, there is still purpose, still grace, and still hope.

I can’t even begin to feel all of these things—at least not all at once, not every day. They come in pieces, at random moments. And when I don’t fully believe them, I still say them. I sing them over myself, because one day I will believe them—I’m sure of it.

Until then, I’ll worship. I’ll pray. I’ll keep ushering myself into being well—not physically, but in my soul—because that’s what I can do.

Dear Mama,

I see you.

Not the version of you that folds the laundry, answers emails, teaches lessons, returns calls, or holds space for everyone else’s pain—I see the you underneath it all.

The one who wakes up already tired.
The one carrying a body that doesn’t always cooperate, a heart stretched thin, and a mind that rarely gets to rest.

You are doing holy work in hidden places.

You are showing up for your children—guiding their learning, shaping their hearts—even on the days when your own body feels like it’s unraveling in new ways you didn’t experience before. You are holding space for others, helping them carry burdens while quietly bearing your own. You are building something meaningful through your business, even when the weight of it all feels unbearable.

And still—there is grief.

The kind that comes with medical disappointments.
The kind that whispers, this isn’t how I thought my life would look.
The mourning of what could have been, what should have been, what you prayed would be different by now. The hope you carried that now feels deferred. The quiet ache of limitation. The frustration of interrupted plans, depleted energy, and hope stretched thin.

And sometimes, there is fear—gripping, breath-stealing fear about the future. Questions that won’t settle.

What if this gets worse?
What if I can’t keep up?
What will this mean for my family?
How will I finish the race—raising these babies, loving my husband well, living fully—and one day be the grandmother I dream of being?

The kind of fear that creeps in during the quiet and feels too heavy to name out loud.

A sermon my pastor once preached gave me a line I hold onto often:
“The report is not the story.”

Sometimes I repeat it over and over until I’m tired of hearing it—but I need it to sink in.

Your grief is real. It matters.
And you don’t have to pretend it isn’t there to be strong.

But it doesn’t get the final word.

Because somehow, in the middle of all of this—you are still here.
Still loving. Still giving. Still reaching for hope, even if it’s with trembling hands.

That is not weakness.
That is faith.

Not the loud, polished kind—no, that’s not who you are.

But the quiet, stubborn kind that says,
Lord, I don’t understand… but I trust that You’re still here. I just don’t know what You’re doing yet.

On the days when your body fails you, grace does not. Give it freely—to yourself, too.
On the days when your strength runs out, His does not. Lean in.
On the days when you feel like you’re falling apart, you are still being held together in ways you cannot see. Trust that.

You are not behind.
You are not failing your children.
You are not “less than” because your capacity looks different now.

You are a mother who loves deeply.
A woman who serves faithfully.
A vessel who pours out—even when it costs something.

And God sees it all.

Every sacrifice.
Every quiet prayer whispered through tears.
Every moment you choose to keep going when it would be easier to give up.
Every painful moment.
Every time you try to hide with distraction.
Every fleeting thought before you can even catch it.

There is still purpose here that you will fulfill.
There is still beauty being written into your story.
There is still hope—not because everything is okay, but because He is still good.

So rest when you need to.
Cry when you have to.
Make a good playlist and belt it out when you’re alone (I’ll share a few from mine below).
Crack open the Word often.
Lean on Him in ways you never have before.
Get on your knees—and let your babies see it.

You don’t have to carry this alone.

And Mama—please hear this:
You are doing better than you think.

With gentleness and deep understanding,
A fellow weary, hopeful heart

It’s not always well with my soul… but I’ll keep singing it over myself as a reminder:
“It is well… with me.”

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A few songs on my “Feels” playlist:

• Shiloh – Audrey Assad
• She Checks the Weather – JOHNNYSWIM
• The Story I’ll Tell – Maverick City & Naomi Raine
• Give Me Your Hand – Ellie Holcomb
• Forever YHWH – Jordan Welch
• Take It to Jesus – Anna Golden & Kari Jobe