We live in a world that moves at lightning speed.

Productivity is praised, and success is often measured by how much we can juggle at once. And somehow, even motherhood—a role that should be tender, slow, and sacred—gets pulled into that same hustle.

From the moment we become moms, we’re flooded with messages:

• “Get your body back.”

• “Get back to work.”

• “Keep up with the schedules, the activities, the Pinterest-worthy moments.”

  
  

Society tells us that handing our babies off so we can “get back to life” is normal.

But when my daughter was born, something in me shifted completely.

She became my life.

I felt an overwhelming need to stay home with her, to savor her littleness, to soak in every tiny detail. The way her fingers curled around mine. The soft rhythm of her breathing as she slept on my chest.

And when the time came to go back to work, my heart ached. 

Everything in me screamed that this wasn’t how it was meant to be.

My mother’s heart begged to stay.

It knew these fleeting, ordinary moments—rocking her to sleep, watching her explore the world around her—were the very life I was meant to live.

WHAT WILL OUR KIDS REMEMBER?

When my daughter is grown, I know she won’t remember the endless to-do lists I checked off or how many things I managed to squeeze into a single day. She probably won’t remember whether her birthday parties were Pinterest-worthy or if I kept up with the laundry (thankfully!).

But she will remember how I made her feel.

She’ll remember whether I stopped what I was doing to really listen when she was telling me something that mattered to her.

She’ll remember if I was patient when she needed help, or if my frustration boiled over because I was distracted and overwhelmed.

She’ll remember the warmth of my hugs, the softness of my words, and the peace (or tension) that filled our home.

And if I’m being honest… this is where it hits me hard lately. 

The truth is, staying home isn’t slow and simple like I thought it would be.

Some days it feels like the work is never done. 

There’s always another meal to cook, dishes piling up in the sink, laundry waiting to be folded, a house that never seems clean enough.

Add in homeschooling, a yard that needs tending, animals to care for, a chicken coop to clean, and it can feel like I’m drowning in tasks.

I know my daughter’s deepest desire is just to have me, and yet some days I’m so stretched thin that my patience wears down faster than I’d like to admit.

But even now, living the dream I once prayed for, I feel the pull of busyness.

And I keep coming back to this simple, humbling question:

What will my daughter remember?

Will she look back and see a mom who was always busy, always distracted, always halfway present?

Or will she remember the quiet moments—me sitting beside her, Bible open, worship music playing, talking about Jesus in the car, laughing until we cried, just being together?

 Because even in the overwhelm, I want her memories to be full of love.

I want her to remember a mama who fought to be present even when life felt chaotic.

A mama who made space for snuggles and heart talks, even if there were dishes in the sink and dirt on the floors.

And most of all, I pray she remembers faith.

That Jesus wasn’t just something we talked about on Sundays, but Someone we invited into every part of our lives. That she saw me praying at the table and heard me whispering prayers over her as she drifted to sleep. That she noticed how I turned to God when things were hard—and celebrated with Him when things were good.

Our legacy isn’t built in the things we say once in a while; it’s built in the things we live out every day. The way we model love, grace, forgiveness, and faith—it’s all forming the foundation our children will stand on.

So when I ask myself, “What will my daughter remember?”—I hope the answer is simple:

She will remember that her mama loved Jesus deeply, and that love spilled over into every part of her childhood.

(And I want to pause and say: I know not every mom has the choice to stay home. Some of you long to, but circumstances make it impossible or incredibly hard. Please know—this isn’t about a specific location but about the heart posture we bring to our motherhood. Whether you work outside the home, from home, or are in the thick of stay-at-home life, your love, presence, and faith are building something beautiful right where you are.)

SLOWING DOWN TO BUILD WHAT MATTERS

One thing God keeps pressing on my heart is this: the work will always be there.

The laundry, the dishes, the sweeping, the cooking—it’s endless.

There’s no “done” when it comes to keeping a home.

And truthfully, I love making our home a place of peace and care. I love gardening, homeschooling, cooking from scratch, raising animals… it’s a gift.

But I’ve learned (and am still learning) that if I’m not careful, all the good things I’m doing to build this life can actually distract me from the heart of it.

It’s a weird paradox, isn’t it?

We do these things for our families—to nourish them, to create beauty and security—but sometimes, the work itself can pull us away from the people we’re doing it for.

That’s why I’m realizing: slowing down isn’t about stopping all the work.

It’s about remembering what matters most in the middle of it.

And honestly, Luci helps me with that.

She reminds me every single day what’s most important.

She loves to garden with me, to cook and clean alongside me—not because the tasks are fun in themselves, but because she gets to do them with me. 

She’s happiest when we’re working side by side, whether we’re pulling weeds or washing dishes.

And I know that what she really wants—more than a clean house or a picture-perfect day—is my presence.

That’s why, no matter how full the day gets,

I make sure we have our non-negotiables:

We snuggle every morning before we get up and every night before bed.

We read books together throughout the day, even if it’s just for a few minutes in between chores.

She does her Bible time right alongside me, learning to make that space for Jesus part of her own rhythm too.

It’s not about getting everything right or having perfectly balanced days (because, let’s be real, those don’t exist).

It’s about choosing, over and over, to slow down enough to let her into my world and let faith and love shape the moments we share.

And one day?

I know the roles will reverse.

One day, I’ll be the one begging to be part of her world, hoping she slows down enough to let me in—just like I do for her now.

Jesus showed us this so perfectly.

Even with people constantly pulling on Him, needing Him, asking for His time and attention, He was never rushed. 

He made time to linger.

He paused to see people, to really be with them.

He withdrew when He needed quiet.

He stayed focused on His mission and never let the noise of the world dictate His pace.

If we want to raise kids who know peace, who feel loved, who understand what faith looks like lived out—we have to show them what it means to slow down.

Slowing down is hard in a world that glorifies busyness.

But the fruit it produces?

So, so worth it.

A LEGACY OF FAITH

At the end of the day, the legacy I care most about leaving isn’t just about love and presence—it’s about faith.

More than anything, I want Luci to know Jesus.

Not just know about Him, but to walk closely with Him, to build her life on His truth, and to trust Him in every season. I want her to see that faith isn’t a Sunday thing or a list of rules to follow. It’s a living, breathing relationship—one that carries you through the highs and lows of life.

And here’s the thing: our kids learn what faith looks like by watching us live it out.

They watch how we respond when things go wrong.

They notice whether we turn to God or try to handle it all ourselves.

They pay attention to whether prayer is just a formality or a lifeline.

They see us wrestle, surrender, and keep going—and that’s what shapes their understanding of faith.

But there’s something else I’ve been noticing more and more lately.

I’ve met so many people who grew up in faith-filled homes, yet as adults, they realize they never really knew Jesus for themselves.

Their parents' faith became their default faith, but there wasn’t a personal relationship there.

And that’s not the legacy I want to leave.

One thing I’ve been really intentional about with Luci is helping her build her own connection with Jesus, even now.

When she’s struggling—whether it’s feeling upset, overwhelmed, or just having a hard day—I remind her: “Take it to Jesus. Talk to Him. Tell Him what you need.” 

At 5 years old, her prayers are usually simple—asking for a calm body or a kind heart—but those little prayers are the foundation.

The beginning of what I pray will grow into a deep, unshakable faith that’s hers, not just “Mommy’s Jesus.”

I often wonder where I would be if I hadn’t sought out Jesus for myself as an adult.

With the weight of trauma in my background, I know how dark and heavy life can be without Him.

It honestly scares me sometimes to think about the path my life could have taken.

That’s why I pray—constantly—that Luci never has to experience a life of trauma without Jesus by her side.

I want her to know that even if hardships come (and I know they will), she never has to walk through them alone.

Because without Jesus, it’s a dark and scary place. 

But with Him, there’s always light, hope, and a way through.

I know I can’t protect her from her own purpose—whatever that may be.

Her story is already written by God, and I may not always understand the twists and turns it takes.

But my deepest prayer is that no matter what her journey looks like, she walks hand in hand with Jesus through it all.

That’s the legacy I want to leave: a faith that keeps going, keeps growing, and keeps pointing to the One who is always faithful.

One day, our kids are going to look back and tell the story of their childhood.

They’ll remember how we made them feel, what we prioritized, and the example we set—not just in the big moments, but in the ordinary, quiet ones too.

My deepest hope is that when Luci looks back, she’ll be able to say:

“My mom loved Jesus deeply. She loved me with her whole heart. She made our home a place of peace, faith, and grace. She wasn’t perfect, but she always pointed me to the One who is.”

And friend, whatever your motherhood looks like right now—whether you’re home full-time, working outside the home, or juggling a bit of everything—you are building a legacy. 

Every hug, every prayer, every moment you choose presence over perfection—it’s all writing the story of your motherhood.

It’s not about having it all together.

It’s about showing up, loving deeply, and trusting Jesus to fill in all the gaps.

Lord, thank You for the gift of motherhood.

Thank You for trusting me with this precious soul and for walking with me through every messy, beautiful moment. Help me to slow down, to be present, and to keep my eyes fixed on what truly matters. Let my love be a reflection of Your love, and my faith a roadmap for my child to follow.

I surrender my plans, my expectations, and my worries to You, Lord. Write our story according to Your perfect will, and help me build a legacy that honors You in all things.

Amen.