A Gift for Mom! 🤍
To the grace givers,
From the very depths of the gratitude in my soul . . . THANK YOU.
In this season of my life as I navigate the challenges of raising young kids, finding time for me and my marriage, fostering friendships and growing my career, I am not going to be perfect at balancing all of those hats on my head.
My mind is a constant rush hour of trying to remember little details from “when is that fundraiser due” to “what time is the baby’s doctor appointment” to “oh no, I missed so-and-so’s birthday” and “I never sent that email I was supposed to!”
Those thoughts seem to enter and exit my mind all day, sometimes just crashing into each other creating a distraction that can make me miss something in our relationship. It’s never my intention, and I’m trying hard to lessen the clutter in my life that keeps me from focusing on the things (and the people) that are truly important to me.
I cherish you and I value you—but I know I’m not always going to be perfect—and you always remind me that you don’t expect me to be.
So thank you, friend, for the gift of your grace.
Thank you for not taking it personally that I didn’t respond to your text five days ago. You know my response got lost in the abyss of my mothering mind. So instead of calling me out, you simply send it to me again.
Thank you for forgiving me when I snapped at you. You know I’m tired or something else has been weighing on my mind. So instead of harboring anger, you reach out to ask how you can help.
Thank you for not questioning me about why I had to reschedule our girls’ night. You know I might not have the energy, or I need to put time into my marriage or my family that night. So instead of making me feel bad, you start looking at your calendar for another date that works for both of us.
Thank you for knowing that friendships have seasons. Sometimes we’ll talk every day, and other times it will be weeks or months. But you know life happens, and our friendship will always be there to come back to.
Thank you, friend. For all of it.
For your grace when I make a mistake.
For your grace when I disappoint you.
For your grace when I’m not perfect.
For your grace when tired acting out of character.
For your grace when I hurt you and don’t mean to.
Thank you for knowing that I am human, and for loving me through all of it.
You may also like:
Want more stories of love, family, and faith from the heart of every home, delivered straight to you? Sign up here!
When my dad turned 80, he—and we, by default—celebrated all year. My sister made a fantastic, larger-than-life sign of him posing in front of his friend’s antique car, with beautiful calligraphy that trumpeted, “Cheers to you, celebrating 80 years of life!” The sign welcomed his closest friends and family into a private room at a steakhouse, where we toasted his 80 years—and the grandkids toasted his steady presence in their lives. The sign moved from the swanky steakhouse to the second-floor banister in my parents’ house. When you walked in, it greeted you—a feel-good conversation starter and a reminder to...
I knew people died. I just didn’t think it applied to us. Mortality met me in grade two with a punch to the gut when my teacher confirmed casually that, yes, everybody dies. What do you mean, everybody dies? I frantically thought, but kept my question to myself. Up until that moment, I had quietly believed my family was exempt from that fate. I thought death was a monster that only took other people and left my family alone. They say all panic has an origin story, and mine began shortly after that realization, fueled by a disconnected phone cord...
“You have to accept that you will likely never get the apology you deserve.” When my therapist said those words, I felt everything at once-anger, resentment, heartbreak. It was as if the air had been pulled straight from my lungs. Because accepting that truth meant letting go of something I had been holding onto for a long time: the hope that one day, it would all be acknowledged. My family was deeply wronged. Not in a way that can be brushed off or easily forgotten, but in a way that cut to the core. There were lies wrapped in deception,...
To the little girl with pink flowers on her white shoes and lacy fold-down socks, down and ready, tee ball glove in hand, teeth marks worn into the top. The Pittsburgh Pirates hat from Uncle Dave, a sign of camaraderie. A part of something bigger than herself. A too-long, locally sponsored t-shirt, tied up with a ponytail. Jean shorts and a belt. The type of ordinary only childhood can be. When ordinary is more than enough. No one can tell in this picture that you were scared. That you didn’t feel ready. That behind that tiny-toothed grin you were holding...
I don’t know about you, but finding a good pair of jeans has always felt like a process to me. These are too tight. Those are too loose. They fit my thighs but bunch at my hips. The dreaded waist gap. Too short—high waters. Too long, and suddenly you can’t find your legs. Before you know it, you’re ordering your fourth pair and eyeing a fifth. A woman on a mission. And still, as I stand there looking in the mirror at everything that doesn’t quite work, I just know there is a perfect pair out there for me. Somewhere....
My journey with monitoring benign breast lumps began in July of 2020 when my OB-GYN found a lump. I was sent home with an ultrasound referral. I called immediately after I got home and asked for the soonest appointment at any location. I had a young son, and was absolutely terrified. They got me in at the end of the week. My husband was on vacation that week, and what should have been an enjoyable family time was plagued with worry. At the ultrasound appointment, they saw two small lumps. I was told these were “likely benign” and was given...
I was never meant to be a plant person. I’m the woman who can kill a succulent on the way home from the store. Once, a fern sighed in my direction and gave up. That is my spiritual gift. My grandpa Dominic would have laughed—hard. He loved to laugh. And sing hymns passionately in Italian. He was an Italian immigrant who lost his arm working in a mill, and still, he woke up every morning and dressed like dignity itself. He shopped for my grandma. He fixed what was broken. And he tended the biggest, happiest garden you’ve ever seen....
It seems like just yesterday I was writing a piece about my last baby going off to kindergarten. I poured my heart out into words about how she was going to find her place in the world, and how I was going to find a new sense of belonging. I wrote, “I was able to find a bit of ‘me’ again. She has barely left my side in almost six years, so her absence is still fresh and foreign. But I know her jubilant little self will be just fine. And just like that, she’s on her way. And so...
I’ve given birth to four beautiful boys and lived through four postpartum experiences. Each one has been different, yet there are familiar threads that run through them all. In the first couple of weeks after my first baby was born, I felt carefree…until that bubble was popped. My newborn got sick and was admitted to the PICU at a children’s hospital 30 minutes from our home. At one point, doctors mentioned the possibility of meningitis, but after many tests and a several-day admission, we were sent home. When we were discharged, a doctor left me with these words, “It’s your...
No one can really prepare you for how much friendships change in your 40s. We expect life shifts—kids grow, schedules fill, jobs demand more, and aging parents need us in new ways. Time becomes tighter, priorities change, and naturally, friendships have to adjust. That part makes sense, right? But what doesn’t get talked about enough is the quiet, hard shift, the one where it’s not just time or distance creating friendship gaps, but something deeper. What happens when you look around your “table” and realize it no longer feels like a safe place to land? What happens when you start...
