I didn’t realize I was a person who struggled with change until I became a parent. I enter each new phase with nostalgia in one hand and pushing back with the other. 

Sometimes I miss the little years and earlier bedtimes. This current exhaustion differs from those sleep-deprived nights, and sometimes I prefer the latter.

The stakes feel higher. I struggled when our oldest started high school last year. There is a nagging weight the closer we get to launching him. 

Questions linger. Have I been doing this whole parenting gig, right? There are things I wish I’d done differently, yet I’m trying to be intentional with the time I still have today. 

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It often feels like I’m fighting a losing battle. Life gets busier the older the kids get, and I understand just how fleeting time is. 

Recently I rearranged our living room at the request of my husband. When we moved into our house two years ago, I wanted something aesthetically pleasing. The open layout meant no seating directly parallel to the wall with the TV, and he’s been complaining about it ever since. So I took one for the team and moved the couches. The room feels smaller, but it’s been a gift.

The time when we are all at home together happens less and less these days, but when we are, the family seems to congregate in the living room a little more—filling the worn couches between walls that echo and silence all the same.

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I think the reason it took me so long to move the furniture was the same reason I find myself struggling in each new season of motherhood. There is a stronghold, and I’m incapable of prying my fingers from it, fighting myself as much as others. 

But time slips even through pried hands. So I move furniture, tweaking what’s needed as it does. Learning that all I can do is offer my loaves and fish. Giving it all to God, praying he multiplies all I couldn’t, all I lacked. 

Originally published on the author’s blog