Homes and Hearts

In a few days my baby won’t be a baby anymore. The days have already started to change. Bottles were swapped for sippy cups and snacks. His little goos replaced with excited shrieks and first words. The smacks of crawling hands on the hardwood turned to quick little footfalls as he runs down the hall. But his first birthday really marks the passing of time, and has me thinking in broad strokes about the last year and the days ahead.

It’s hard to describe the polarity of the high highs and low lows that come with motherhood, marriage, and a life of progressive sanctification. But this year especially doesn’t fit on any spectrum or scale I’ve ever known. The deepest of sin and brokenness was met with overwhelming, unexpected grace and provision from God. The biggest of blessings came alongside huge losses and hurts.

Maybe I find it hard to put into words because I’ve held it so close to my chest for so long. Where I was once the girl who was unafraid to lay before anyone my struggles and sin, this last year turned me inward, to a place that carried secrets I didn’t know how to share. In the season where “your village” is supposed to surround you, I found myself feeling utterly alone. And in the midst of the joy of a brand new baby, I lost myself.

In Dallas in late January of 2025, not even 24 hours had passed since the doctors laid my baby boy in my arms. I knew something didn’t seem right. My son was uncomfortable. He squirmed and screamed and refused to sleep. I was written off, and told I just had a baby who wanted to be cuddled. But after giving birth and not sleeping for 72 hours, my husband and I both delirious and in tears, I was terrified my arms couldn’t hold him anymore.

11 days later we learned that he had a severe dairy allergy, and that he immediately needed to stop breast milk and be placed on hypoallergenic formula. But it would be three months before the screaming stopped and he let us lay him down for even a short 20 minute nap. Even then, we were lucky to get 4 hours of sleep at night if we took shifts.

By then, I was very sick. While I had a very easy delivery, my pregnancy had been incredibly hard. My blood pressure had elevated six weeks into pregnancy and didn’t return to normal. I had several other symptoms that suggested I had an auto-immune disease emerging. And I had carried incredibly low in my pelvis, leaving me in crippling pain for months during every stage of my monthly cycle.

Then, there was the postpartum depletion. Having given birth to my daughter just 18 months before my son, I don’t think I ever truly recovered. I experienced, and still do in some moments a year later, irrational rage, overwhelming depression, and very heightened anxiety. I’ll never forget the day I stood in my kitchen, suddenly just overwhelmed by the noise and the pain and the stress. I held a pair of kitchen scissors in my hand and just screamed, staring at my husband, flooded with the urge to hurt him. Then I turned them towards myself, horrified because I knew I was so close to hurting us both. And I couldn’t even tell you why. I wasn’t a person I recognized anymore. That doesn’t even describe it right, though. I was a monster, a hollowed out shell of a person who was supposed to be a mom but instead was more like a caged, prodded animal, ready to attack as soon as the door swung open. And that was only a piece of the pain happening inside the walls of our house.

My husband wasn’t who he wanted to be either during this time. I still don’t quite know how to share or speak to that part of our season. I’m prayerfully trying to process the hurt, while knowing God has called me to respect him, to build him up, and to love him by bearing and enduring the burdens of life and sin together. And I’ve failed miserably at that so far. But things weren’t alright, so much so that I took the babies alone for several weeks across the country to give him space to level out. And that time still wasn’t enough to repair all that was wrong.

Our marriage was the part of this year that made life feel unbearable. If for a moment we felt we had arrived at a place to move forward and heal, it disappeared quickly as another wave of animosity and hurt arrived. Anger was the air we both breathed. Trust was shattered and comparison ran rampant. My partner and best friend became my enemy for many months. And eventually my body became so ill that I couldn’t keep the pace anymore. My husband was the only one who could take the night shift with the baby. I couldn’t hear him anymore, and couldn’t move from the bed if I did. I lost so much time rocking my baby, who grew to only prefer his daddy for every put down. And that added another layer of bitterness and feeling of failure to our already strained dynamic.

We asked for help. Of course we did. We were desperate. But this was a season God meant for us to walk alone with him. And we still struggle to know exactly why. Counselors, pastors, elders, friends, and even parents left our lives during this year. Oh how unworthy of love, how messy, and how broken we felt to be so hurt and turned away from.

But God, (which is my favorite turn in any story, and one you’ll probably hear often if you stick around) was everywhere. In loud, clear, undeniable ways as well as soft and subtle ones. Meeting us in every dark place with light and encouragement, holding us together with a might that could only be by his hand. And it all started with a whisper we never thought we would hear; “You’re moving to Arkansas.”