parenting

Motherhood Isn’t a Simple Thing

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

Motherhood is defined as the state or experience of being a mother.

But that feels far too small for what it actually is.

Because motherhood isn’t just a role.

It’s nurturing.
Protecting.
Guiding.
Sacrificing.
Loving someone so deeply
that their needs begin to shape the rhythm of your entire life.

But real motherhood is also contradiction.

It’s joy and grief existing at the same time.

It’s being needed constantly
while sometimes feeling invisible.

It’s loving your child more than you thought possible
while quietly grieving the parts of motherhood
you thought would look different.

And I think that’s the part people don’t talk about enough.

That you can deeply love being a mother
and still mourn what motherhood was supposed to look like.

Those things can exist together.

Because motherhood changes everything.

Not just your schedule or your responsibilities—

you.

The way you think.
The way you carry stress.
The way you move through the world.
The way your heart exists outside of your own body now.

And good mothers carry so much of that quietly.

The mental weight.
The emotional weight.
The constant awareness of someone else’s needs.

Showing up over and over again,
even when they’re exhausted.

Even when they feel stretched thin.

Even when it doesn’t look the way they once imagined.

And maybe that’s why motherhood is so sacred.

Because at its core,
it’s love in its most selfless form.

Not perfect.

Not easy.

But steadfast.

Again and again.

“As a mother comforts her child, so will I comfort you…”
— Isaiah 66:13 (NIV)

I Didn’t Sit Through the Sermon

/ Baylee Snelling / 1 Comment

I was walking around the church with my son during service.

Our building is set up in a circle,
with the auditorium in the center.

So as I followed him around—
passing by the doors,
catching glimpses of everyone sitting inside—

I had a thought I didn’t expect.

This is hard right now.

Not being able to sit through a full sermon.
Not being in the room the whole time.
Not experiencing church the way I used to.

But it would be so much harder
if this looked different later.

If he were older
and I was trying to convince him to come.

Trying to get him to sit.
Trying to get him to care.

Because right now?

He loves it.

He loves going to church.
He loves going to Bible class.
He wants to be here.

And I realized something in that moment.

Even though I haven’t sat through a full sermon
in quite some time…

I’m still being taught.

Just not in the way I expected.

Not from a stage.
Not from a seat.

But in the middle of following him around,
in the middle of these small, shifting moments—

there’s still something to take in.

And maybe I’m learning just as much as he is.

“Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.”
— Matthew 19:14 (NIV)

What I Hope He Remembers

/ Baylee Snelling / Leave a comment

I won’t be a perfect mother.
But I hope he remembers the kind of love that stayed.

I hope he remembers arms that held him close,
even when the world felt unsteady.
A voice that whispered comfort,
even when mine was tired.
A presence that didn’t walk away —
not in the chaos,
not in the quiet,
not in the mess.

And maybe, just maybe,
that kind of love will remind him of God’s.

Because if I’ve learned anything,
it’s that His love shows up the same way —
not waiting for the mess to be cleaned up,
not holding back until we’re stronger,
but entering in, again and again,
with kindness, patience, and grace.

That’s the kind of love I want to model.
Not flawless,
but faithful.
Not perfect,
but present.

So no, I won’t get it all right.
But I hope he sees the reflection —
of a God who stays.
Of a love that never leaves.
Of grace that shows up in the middle and calls it holy.

“God is love. Whoever lives in love lives in God, and God in them.”
— 1 John 4:16 (NIV)

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.