Little Pieces of Her Heart

To the mothers carrying love, grief, expectation, and legacy

Can I be honest?

Mother’s Day has not always been my favorite day as a mother.

It’s held this strange tension for me over the years…
wanting to feel loved and celebrated and appreciated, while also not wanting to be the center of attention at all.
Wanting the day to feel meaningful and beautiful and somehow feeling guilty for even hoping for that.

And if I’m really honest, there were years when Mother’s Day hurt deeply.

During the years we struggled with infertility, I dreaded it. Sitting in church watching mothers stand to be honored felt unbearable some years. I would smile. I would try to be happy for everyone else. But inside, my heart felt broken. I’d leave carrying grief I didn’t know how to express.

Then the Lord blessed me with three beautiful children, and I honestly thought Mother’s Day would suddenly feel completely different.

But motherhood is funny that way.

In the younger years, I was so exhausted that all I wanted was a little space to breathe… and then I’d feel guilty for wanting that. As my children grew older, all I wanted was one day where I didn’t have to cook or clean or solve problems or referee arguments or answer “Mom?” every thirty seconds.

And underneath all of it, if I’m telling the truth, what I often wanted most… was my own mom.

My mother is one of the greatest gifts God has ever given me.

She’s wildly fun — the kind of woman always ready for a deep, gut-wrenching laugh that makes your stomach hurt and your soul feel lighter.

She is strength and courage wrapped in gentleness.
A woman who taught me with her life that no one will ever care for me like Jesus will.
That His truth is what anchors us.
That serving your family is sacred work.

I learned to cook and bake by watching her serve people around our table. I watched her feed our church on Wednesday nights, offer coffee and pie in the afternoons, grow gardens from the dirt, can vegetables from the harvest, care for animals, gather apples and turn them into cider.

She has always had this beautiful ability to take the least of things and somehow make the most of them.

But more than that, she has always shared her heart through the written word.

She journals daily.
She wrote us love notes on scrap paper.
And now as a grandmother — and great grandmother — she writes letters to each of our children every single birthday of their lives, saving them all to give them when they turn eighteen.

What a gift.

Little pieces of her heart preserved in ink.
A legacy of love they will be able to hold in their hands long after the moments themselves have passed.

And now, as a mother myself, I realize what a legacy that truly is.

Not perfection.
Presence.

Not performance.
Love.

Not having endless resources.
But offering what you have with open hands.

Somewhere along the way, I also realized something important about Mother’s Day: it wasn’t that my family didn’t love me well. It was that I expected them to somehow magically know exactly what I needed without ever telling them.

My unspoken expectations were sabotaging the very connection I longed for.

So eventually, I started being honest.

I started telling them what I loved. What would fill my cup. What I needed. What I didn’t need.

And do you know what happened?

The pressure lifted.

For all of us.

I started planning Mother’s Day in ways that actually felt life-giving, and instead of everyone trying to guess what would make me happy, we simply got to enjoy each other.

And honestly… isn’t that what most of us want as mothers?

To be with our people.
To love them well.
To receive love without holding it at arm’s length.
To see our children for who they are instead of who we think they should be.
To be present enough to actually experience the life we’ve been given.

This year feels tender again.

My mom is battling cancer for the second time, and there’s a dull ache in my heart wishing I could simply sit beside her today. And I know so many of you carry your own ache today too. Some of you are grieving mothers. Some are longing to become mothers. Some feel exhausted by motherhood. Some feel unseen inside of it.

Wherever this day finds you, I pray you let yourself surrender all of it to the Lord.

The grief.
The expectations.
The longing.
The love.

I pray you allow yourself to receive love from the people willing to give it.
I pray you stop withholding your needs out of guilt or fear.
I pray you remember that the sacred work you do every day matters deeply.

And I pray you know this:

Motherhood is one of my favorite parts of my identity.
Not because I do it perfectly.
But because it has taught me more about love, sacrifice, grace, and the heart of God than almost anything else in my life.

Happy Mother’s Day to the women carrying legacy with their lives.

You matter more than you know.