Reflections on a Year of Working Motherhood

This week marks one year of working motherhood. It is not an experience that can be explained (or even summed up) neatly. (Bonus points if you caught that reference.)

I have felt judged, defensive, embarrassed, proud, jealous, guilty, competent, wildly incompetent, and exhausted beyond belief.

I worked through not enough sleep, too much caffeine, and postpartum depression.

I pumped three times a day for five months and cried big ugly tears in the bathroom at work.

I felt relief at being with adults instead of a colicky infant, able to drink a hot cup of coffee and eat my lunch sitting down and then promptly felt guilty for even thinking that.

I felt like working made me a better mother and a worse mother.

I felt alone.

I Googled “support for Christian working moms” and felt even more alone (and angry).

And then. The biggest, most wonderful surprise of the year.

I learned that I am not alone.

I am part of an amazing, strong, mighty community of moms who love God, their families, and their jobs. These women are an answer to fervent prayer, my soul sisters in sleepless nights, coffee, deadlines, and messy houses. I love them and look forward to serving and growing with them.

God has taken me on an unexpected journey this year. I am nervous, grateful, and excited to see what comes next.

Five Minute Friday: Story

I'm linking up with Lisa-Jo Baker's Five Minute Friday when I should be taking a shower and going to bed. I really want to preface this with all sorts of qualifiers about how it's the end of a long day and I'm tired so it really isn't my best work, but I think that defeats the purpose. So here you go.

This week's prompt is: Story

GO

I thought I knew my story.

It was straightforward: survivor of abuse. Rebuilt my life. Found my way back to God. The end.

Except it wasn’t the end, because life keeps going.

It brings new struggles, new joys. The story keeps unfolding.

I fought it for a long time. Sometimes I still do. I want that to have been “the end,” except I don’t. Not really. Because then I wouldn’t have my husband or our amazing daughter, or this house or these animals. I wouldn’t have these friends or these emerging passions.

I would love for my story to be nice and neat and tied up in a bow: I survived. The end. Happily ever after.

Happily, yes. Sometimes. Not always. But always good, even in the new struggles.

Because God is always true and always good. He is the End. It’s hard to remember that sometimes.

I’m grateful I get to partner with Him in the telling of my story, even when I wish I could peek ahead, just a bit.

I thought I knew my story.

STOP