The Holy, the Hard, and the Hilarious

Life with Three Kids Under Four and a Full-Time Job

Last week, I put on real clothes (not stretchy ones), swiped on some mascara, and walked back into my full-time job for the first time since welcoming our third baby girl.

Twelve weeks. That’s how long I was “off,” though anyone who has ever taken maternity leave knows that’s a bit of a misnomer. There is nothing “off” about sleepless nights, endless feedings, and the physical, emotional, spiritual marathon of caring for a newborn while also raising a just-turned-four-year-old and an almost-three-year-old.

Yes—three girls. All under four.

Some days I feel like I’m living in a sitcom. Other days, like I’m barely holding it together. Most days? Both.

This is the season I once longed for. I prayed for these babies. I imagined the matching dresses, the storybook reading circles, the bows and the bubbles.

But no one told me just how much it would require of me. Or just how much I’d grow through it.

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Torn in Two (and Somehow Still Whole)

The first day back at work, I cried in the car. Not the delicate, Hallmark kind of cry—the kind that fogs up your sunglasses and makes you sit in the parking lot with your coffee going cold in the cupholder. I felt torn in two. My body was sitting at a desk. My heart was still at home.

I love my job. I really do. I’m grateful for meaningful work, for the opportunity to lead, to contribute, to steward my gifts beyond the walls of my home. But there is a very real ache that comes with returning to work when your baby still curls up like a jellybean and your toddlers are asking, “Why do you have to go again?”

No one warned me how deep that ache could be. But Jesus meets me there.

In the ache. In the question marks. In the late-night rocking and early-morning commutes. He whispers, You are still their mother, even when you’re not in the room. I go where you can’t.

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The Mess and the Miracle

At home, it’s loud. So loud.

There are squeals and shrieks and meltdowns and Daniel Tiger songs on repeat. My four-year-old is asking deep spiritual questions—“Why did God make jellyfish?” and “Will there be popsicles in heaven?” My two-year-old is my tiny tornado—equal parts hugs and hurricane. And our sweet baby girl is still so new, so soft, so wonderfully unaware of the chaos she’s been born into.

I’m exhausted. All the time.

But then… they wrap their arms around my neck. They say, “I missed you, Mama.” My newborn sighs contentedly in my arms. And in those moments, it all makes sense again.

This season is both miracle and mayhem. I miss it while I’m living it, and I grieve it while I’m walking through it. I’m learning it’s okay to feel both things at once. That’s not weakness. That’s motherhood.

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No Balance, Only Surrender

I used to think I had to balance everything perfectly—be present at home, sharp at work, spiritually grounded, emotionally available, physically energized. But balance is a myth. Surrender is the truth.

So I’m learning to hand God what I don’t have the strength to hold. To trust that what I can’t be in this moment, He still is.

Because here’s what’s true:

• I will miss things.

• I will mess things up.

• I will forget appointments and lose my temper and serve frozen chicken nuggets more than I’d like.

But God’s grace covers what I can’t. His strength meets me in my lack. His love surrounds my girls more fully than mine ever could.

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What I Want Them to Remember

I don’t want my daughters to remember a perfect mom. I want them to remember a present one. A praying one. A woman who showed up, who asked for forgiveness when she messed up, who loved them deeply and pointed them back to Jesus daily.

I want them to remember that the same God who gave them their mama also gave their mama Himself—and He is always enough.

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To the Mama Who's Here Too

If you're in the thick of it—juggling littles and work and laundry and dreams you’re scared to say out loud—I see you. And more importantly, God sees you.

He’s not measuring your worth by how many things you check off a list. He’s not waiting for you to do it all right. He’s walking with you, holding you steady, speaking peace into your chaos.

So go ahead. Cry in the car. Pray over the car seat. Laugh at the ridiculous moments. Order takeout. Apologize when you get it wrong. Hug tight. Show up again tomorrow.

You're doing Kingdom work—yes, even when you're wiping noses and answering emails in the same hour.

Let’s keep showing up, mamas. Not because we’ve got it all together, but because He does.

And that’s enough.