You feel the weight of the funk you’re in. Your mind and heart know that the days are rushing by—that soon they’ll be grown, and you’ll miss this time. You even remember a time, not too long ago, when you desperately missed them after a few hours of not seeing their sweet faces.

But in this season, as your kids have grown older and multiplied, as their wills have grown stronger and their clashes seem constant, you long to hide yourself away, to shut off the overwhelm and the fire in your senses.

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You escape into food, or Netflix, or podcasts, or a really good book. You wonder what’s going on. You ask, “God, is there something wrong with me?”

Sweet momma, be encouraged. Nothing is wrong. This is a season. You are allowed to be weary, to be numb. You are allowed to struggle.

The brood of moms a step behind you are still basking in the freshness of motherhood. The generation whose children are already raised looks back on the past in a distorted rose color.

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You are in the trenches—between diapers and diplomas, between complete dependence and total independence. Their growing pains, and your growing pains, are merging and criss-crossing in a literal bundle of nerves.

But, there is also love. Even if you don’t see it or feel it as strongly or as clearly, it still burns brightly in the midst of all the strife. Hang in there, momma. It’s a tough season, no doubt, but it’s just a season.