This season feels like a sprint… that somehow turned into a marathon.
Like—who asked each kid if they wanted to play sports this season? And who is the crazy person that said yes?
Oh wait… me. That was me.
I’m the problem.
And man, am I feeling it right now.
Everywhere we turn, someone has somewhere to be. One kid to practice, another to a game. Not to mention making sure we have all the right equipment.
“Oh, you forgot your baseball glove? Use your brother’s.”
“Oh, it’s too small? That’s unfortunate.”
Our van has basically become a second home, and I’m fairly certain I’ve had at least three full conversations this week from the driver’s seat while handing out dinner like I run a very chaotic drive-thru.
Spring has arrived, and with it—sports. All of them. At the same time.
We now have weekly (sometimes nightly) meetings just to figure out who is driving which kid where—and what time they need to leave to make it to the next thing.
And just to keep things interesting, I’m in that slow, plodding grind heading into a busy work season too. The kind where emails multiply overnight, deadlines tighten, and the margin I was barely holding onto disappears completely.
At home, things are… not pristine.
Actually, let’s be honest—they’re not even close.
Laundry exists in piles.
Dishes are being loaded into the dishwasher by the kids (only sometimes)… with spatulas sticking straight up so the spinner can’t move… and no soap pod because, of course.
The floors tell the story of six kids living fully and freely, and most days I just step over the evidence and keep moving.
It’s not my favorite.
But it’s where we are right now.
Homeschool is wrapping up, and if I’m being honest, it’s not ending with the neat, tied-up bow I had pictured back in August.
End-of-year testing has been a mixed bag. Some kids are thriving. Some are struggling. And I’ve had to wrestle with that quiet voice that asks if I’ve done enough… or done it well.
This is where the enemy creeps in the most.
Because I’m not just the mom—I’m the teacher. And somehow it feels like my grade hinges on their grades.
At this point, I’m strongly considering career paths for them that don’t require reading.
Cell tower climber. Drone pilot. We’re exploring options.
And then there’s the toddler.
Oh, the toddler.
Big feelings in a very small body. Tantrums that come out of nowhere and demand everything from me right when I feel like I have nothing left to give.
It’s humbling in a way I didn’t see coming this time around.
If I stopped the story there, it would sound like too much.
And some days, it is.
Some days I feel like I’m making it all work—meals on the table, kids where they need to be, work getting done, everyone (mostly) alive and accounted for.
Those days give me just enough confidence to keep going.
And then there are the other days.
The days where dinner is nuggets… or the drive-thru again.
Where patience is thin.
Where I’m running five minutes late to everything.
Where I collapse into bed wondering what I actually accomplished besides surviving.
Those are the days I feel like I’m hanging on by nuggets and prayers.
But even here—especially here—God.
God in the middle of the chaos.
God in the car rides.
God in the undone laundry and the imperfect school days.
God in the reminders that my worth—and my kids’ worth—is not measured by performance, productivity, or perfectly checked boxes.
And if I’m honest, that’s the hardest part for my perfectionist heart to believe.
But still—God.
God in the grace that meets me when I fall short.
This season isn’t polished. It’s not particularly organized or impressive. It doesn’t photograph well.
But it’s full.
Full of growth.
Full of stretching.
Full of moments that matter, even when they’re messy.
I’m learning that faithfulness in this season doesn’t look like doing everything well.
It looks like showing up anyway.
Choosing presence over perfection.
Grace over guilt.
Connection over control.
It looks like trusting that even when I feel like I’m barely holding it together… He is.
So if you’re in a season like this too—running, juggling, dropping balls, picking them back up—just know you’re not alone.
Some seasons are for thriving.
And some seasons are for holding on.
This one?
This one is for holding on… and trusting God is holding us, too.