hey, it’s me again…

Dear me,

I’m writing to you from the middle.

From the days that felt too full and too fast.
From the noise, the questions, the tugging on my sleeve when I just needed one quiet minute.
From the kind of overwhelm that didn’t come from doing nothing, but from doing everything that mattered all at once.

I hope you remember how overwhelmed you once felt.
Not to shame yourself for it, but to honor it.

I hope you remember the sound of their voices.
The endless questions.
The shrieks of laughter that echoed through the house when something wasn’t even that funny.
The way silence felt rare, and yet somehow sacred when it finally arrived.

I hope you remember how heavy it all felt some days.
How loving them so deeply stretched you thin.
How you worried you weren’t doing enough, being enough, holding it all the right way.

And I hope, by the time you’re reading this, that the weight has shifted.

I hope that as I leaned into God’s purpose for me—especially the one that lives inside this family—the overwhelm didn’t disappear, but transformed. I hope it became a different kind of full. A fullness that feels like joy instead of pressure. Like gratitude instead of guilt.

Right now, I’m learning that purpose doesn’t always look like clarity or calling. Sometimes it looks like faithfulness in the middle of mess. Like choosing presence when productivity feels louder. Like trusting that God sees this work, even when it feels invisible.

If you’ve forgotten, let me remind you:
These days mattered.
This season mattered.
You were not just surviving it—you were building something holy.

I hope you still remember that being needed was not a burden, but a season. One that shaped your heart in ways you couldn’t fully see yet.

And if it’s still loud when you read this—if life is still busy and unfinished—I hope you smile a little. I hope you hear their voices in your head and feel grateful that once upon a time, this was your middle.

From the middle,
with tired hands and a full heart

— me