A personal, faith-filled reflection on the unseen sacrifices, sacred strength, and deep joy found in a decade of motherhood.

I’ve never been able to explain what it truly is like to be a mom. It’s not because I can’t find the right words — there are no words. No one feeling or set of experiences can capture it all. And I suppose that’s why motherhood, for some, can feel so lonely.

You don’t get trophies, high fives, or a pat on the back for all the unseen sacrifices — the long nights with sick babies, the early mornings making food while fighting a stomach bug, the deep breath you take while your toddler melts down over the wrong bowl.

There are endless moments that can feel like complete defeat.

But as it is written:

“Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning.”

— Psalm 30:5

For every moment of defeat, pain, or overwhelm, God returns tenfold in joy and love. From the fluttering kicks during pregnancy to the helpless eyes peeking up at you while breastfeeding.

From their gummy smiles, giggles, and glowing personalities, to their first real boo-boos, and the way they cling to your leg or bury their heads in your chest — these tender moments are worth the hard days.

As I’ve grown in motherhood, I’ve come to know that nothing goes unseen, unappreciated, or unnoticed. Every cell in my being is settled, fulfilled, and at peace with my children near me.

My child — the very cells once formed inside my body — doesn’t need to give me a trophy or even a thank you.

Because love is unspoken.

Love is in the actions.

Love is answering, even when no one asks.

This Mother’s Day I reflect on my decade of motherhood, I know I am loved and appreciated — not because of something I was given, but because of the capacity to love my family, my husband, my children.

This capacity to love fuels my will to move forward.

Although they may not see what struggles I have or what sacrifices I make, I have peace — a peace that is offered to us all.

There are moments where I have thought, Surely I can’t do it today. The load is too heavy. I’m tired. The to-do list is longer than the day. I’m met with friction and resistance from every direction. I lift my head from mourning and open my eyes to see a few days’ worth of dishes. Pushing myself, I start scrubbing.

Most see just a mom washing the dishes — nothing of significance.

But what they miss is my inner dialogue, where everything inside me says, Just go lay down. Save it for another day.

Even though I know it will feel so good to just get them washed and done.

They don’t see the inner battles I fight — and frankly, they never will.

Nor do I need them to.

Because I believe something in these moments.

I believe someone knows.

I believe someone sees.

He hears my prayer — not just from my words, but from my actions, from my sacrifice, from my pain.

Not to sound dramatic over dishes, but on days where it all seems too much, it’s always the dishes that push me over the edge.

And I truly believe that Jesus knows me.

He sees me in these moments, and I find the strength in Him to push forward.

He knows where I have come from.

He knows how much I have grown.

And I fight the battles — not just for myself or for my family — but for Him.

I will do the hard things in worship to God and to honor my family, for all of my days.

“We love because He first loved us.”

— 1 John