Living the Sacred Tension

There is a quiet tension many mothers don’t talk about.

It’s the tension between wanting to be fully present with our children and still wanting to become who we know we are meant to be.

Between devotion and desire.

Between the sacredness of now and the pull of what’s next.

For a long time, I thought this tension meant I was doing something wrong.

I thought I needed to pick a side.

The Sacred Tension

What I couldn’t see for a long time was that this tension wasn’t a sign of failure — it was a sign of depth.

I was trying to solve it as a problem, when it was actually an invitation.

The mistake wasn’t feeling pulled in two directions.

The mistake was believing I had to choose.

Our culture trains us to think in binaries:

either you’re devoted to your family or you’re ambitious,

either you’re present or you’re building something,

either you pour yourself into now or you prepare for what’s next.

But life — especially motherhood — doesn’t actually work that way.

What I’m learning is a quieter, harder truth: two things can be true at the same time.

I can love this season deeply and still feel called toward something more.

I can honor the sacredness of now and trust the unfolding of what’s next.

The tension doesn’t disappear when I stop choosing sides.

It transforms.

Instead of pressure, it becomes a place of listening.

Instead of urgency, it becomes discernment.

Instead of guilt, it becomes reverence.

This is what I mean by sacred tension —not something to resolve, but something to hold.

For a long time, I thought this season was asking me to hustle or disappear.

But what I’m learning — slowly, gently — is that it’s asking me to trust.

Trust that presence is not a detour.

Trust that building slowly is still building.

Trust that nothing I’m living is wasted.

So much of modern success is fueled by urgency — by proving, striving, and performing for approval. Many of the most successful people admit that their drive came from a deep fear of disappointing those they loved most.

That path works — but it often costs us rest, joy, and self-trust.

I don’t want that legacy.

I want to raise children who feel loved without needing to earn it.And I want to heal the part of myself that learned love through achievement.

Lately, my work looks quieter.

It looks like early mornings and late nights — not because I’m grinding, but because those are the moments that don’t pull me away from the people I love. It looks like creating without rushing to share. Like capturing moments of motherhood not as content, but as truth I don’t want to forget.

I’m learning to close the day not with a to-do list, but with a question:

What can I let go of now?

And in the morning, instead of bracing myself for everything I need to do, I begin with a reminder:

Everything is working out for me.

This doesn’t mean everything is easy.

It means I’m no longer gripping so tightly.

I’m letting life meet me where I am.

Healing, I’m realizing, isn’t about fixing myself or choosing a different version of me.

It’s about learning to hold what is and what’s becoming — without abandoning either.

It’s about releasing the belief that my worth is proven by output, and remembering that presence is already enough.

I’m choosing to meet this season — and myself — with reverent curiosity.

Not rushing it.

Not forcing outcomes.

Not abandoning what matters most.

I don’t know exactly how everything will unfold.

But I trust myself.

And I trust the unfolding.

And for the first time in a long time, that feels like enough.

Reflection

Where in your life are you experiencing tension — and how might things shift if you saw it not as a problem to solve, but as an invitation to exploration?

— Kelly

January 21, 2026