Motherhood

Motherhood: The Gift and the Grief

/ Baylee Snelling / Leave a comment

There are days when I feel like I’m exactly where I’m meant to be —
rocking him in the quiet,
kissing his forehead,
hearing “mama” and knowing it means me.

And then there are days when motherhood feels like something I’m still learning how to hold —
not because I’m absent from it,
but because some parts look different than I imagined.

No one tells you how much letting go is wrapped up in loving.
How much loss lives inside of even the most beautiful things.

And yet, this is what I know:

I am his mother.
Fully. Deeply. Undeniably.
Whether I’m holding him or waiting for him.
Whether it’s loud laughter or quiet ache.
Whether the world understands it or not — I know it in my bones.

This isn’t just a Hallmark holiday.
It’s a sacred tension.
It’s a joy and a heartbreak.
It’s both.

And somehow, I get to live in that middle space —
the one where gratitude and grief sit at the same table,
and I’m learning not to rush either of them away.

Because maybe this, too, is motherhood:
Not picture-perfect.
Not easy to explain.
But honest. Holy. Still mine.

Why I Started Writing Here

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

It’s only been a week since I started this blog — but already, it feels like more than a project.
It feels like a place.
A quiet room I keep returning to.
A space I didn’t know I needed until I was finally inside it.

And somewhere in the middle of reflecting, this thought came to me:

Not a spotlight,
but a candle.
Not “look at this,”
but “if you need this, it’s here.”
Not “I wrote something,”
but “I lived something —
and I found words for it.”

That’s what this is.

Not performance.
Not perfection.
Just presence.

I asked myself:

  • Do I want someone to read this and feel less alone?
  • Would it help me to know that someone else might be quietly held by it?

The answer was yes —
so I know this isn’t self-promotion.
It’s shared presence.

That’s what I hope this place becomes.
Not a platform.
But a light.
Small and steady.
Soft enough to breathe by.
Strong enough to keep going.

So thank you —
for showing up here.
For holding space with me.
For reminding me that even in the quiet,
our voices matter.

Closing Prayer:

God,
For the one who’s quietly carrying more than she’s said out loud —
may she find peace in stillness, and comfort in words that feel like home.
Remind her that she doesn’t need to have it all figured out to be faithful.
Let this space — and these stories — remind her that she’s not alone.
Not in the silence.
Not in the stretch.
Not in the sacred becoming.

Thank You for meeting us here — softly, steadily, and always.

Amen.

The Lullaby Still Lingers

/ Baylee Snelling / Leave a comment

Written from a moment I didn’t want to let go.

Last night, I rocked Beckett a little longer.
Not because he needed it —
but because I did.
It was Thursday.
The end of the week’s stretch.
The end of my energy.

I held him close and sang our song.
The one I’ve been singing since he was in my belly —
and the one I always return to when the world feels loud.

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine…

I sang it slowly.
Letting the words settle in the quiet between us.

I knew the house would be still today.
And I guess I just wanted to carry the sound a little longer.

I’ve been thinking about how much I try to earn rest —
like I have to finish everything first.
Like I can only stop once I’ve proven I’m doing enough.

But last night reminded me…
rest doesn’t wait for everything to be finished.
It waits for me to say enough for now.

And maybe that’s what that moment was —
me choosing stillness.
Choosing to breathe.

Just me, my baby, and the soft sound of a song
that feels like home.

And now, the house is quiet.
The lullaby has faded.
But the love —
it lingers.

And maybe…
that’s all I need to rest today.

When the Past Shows Up Without Warning

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

From one anonymous woman to another

I saw a face today— not in person — but I didn’t expect to see it.
And something in me froze.

I thought I had moved past it — or at least moved far enough away from it.
But some memories don’t knock before they come rushing in.

They don’t care if you were having a good morning.

They don’t care if you were feeling strong, or grounded, or even just okay.

One photo. One name. One echo.
And suddenly, you’re back in a moment you never wanted in the first place — much less to revisit.

It didn’t last forever. The wave passed.
But I felt it — the weight in my chest, the lump in my throat, the questions I’ve already answered a hundred times:
“Was it really that bad?”
“Should I have done more to protect the future women who meet him?”
“Why am I still shaken by this?”

And then I did what I could.
I shared what was safe.
I used my voice — anonymously — to protect someone who might not know what they’re walking into.
Not out of anger.
But out of care.
Because I would’ve wanted someone to do the same for me back then.

And now… I’m looking down at this perfect little face, as I rock my baby for a nap.

His breath slows against my shoulder.
One hand curled against my chest, the other on my back.
The room quiet.

And just like that — I am back in this moment.

One that’s steady.
One that’s safe.
One that’s mine.

I don’t owe the past my silence.
And I don’t owe it my presence either.

I’m here now — in this soft, still place where healing is allowed to happen.
Where I have found my voice.

Leaving the Service, Finding the Stillness

/ Baylee Snelling / 5 Comments

A reflection on the Easter Sunday I stepped out — and still found grace.

I could feel the sensory overload pulsing through both of us.
The lights, the noise, the crowd.
The pressure to keep him calm.
The unspoken fear that everyone around us might be thinking, “She doesn’t know what she’s doing.”

My dad took him for a moment. Then my mom.
He always wanted to come back to me — and I wanted him too.
But even in my arms, he wouldn’t settle.
I knew he was tired. I knew he was overstimulated.
And truthfully, so was I.

He didn’t have the words for it,
but somehow I think Beckett knew I needed something too —
a break, a breath, a quieter place to hold him without the weight of so many eyes.

We both needed out. So we left.

I stepped into the quiet lobby with him pressed against my chest, and I felt a mix of relief and shame.
I had wanted so badly to stay in the service, to worship, to feel present in the message of resurrection and hope.
But instead, I found myself holding my toddler in a hallway, wondering if people saw a mom who didn’t have it together.
Wondering if they thought, “She doesn’t know how to handle him. She doesn’t have him every Sunday. She doesn’t know what he needs.”

That thought stung more than I wanted to admit.

But as I swayed with him in the stillness, something shifted.
He was restless — but I was still his safest place.
Even when I felt unsure. Even when I didn’t have all the answers.
He kept coming back to me.

And maybe that’s enough.

Maybe being a good mom isn’t about having flawless moments in the pews.
Maybe it’s about leaving the room when your child needs quiet — and letting that be holy too.
Maybe it’s about knowing you’re doing your best with what you have.
About whispering “you’re okay” to your baby while learning to whisper it to yourself, too.

I’m still learning how to mother through the insecurity.
Still learning that I don’t need to prove anything to anyone.
Still learning to trust that love isn’t always soft and settled — sometimes, it’s messy and loud and stretching and real.

And maybe that’s the kind of grace we need most —
the kind that meets us in the hallway, not just at the altar.