The Quiet Struggle: Living With Depression as a Mom

Depression Is a Real Thing

Depression is a real thing. It’s not just a mood or a rough day — it’s something that can quietly take hold of your life in ways most people don’t see. It doesn’t always look like tears or breakdowns. Sometimes it looks like silence. It seems like pulling away from people you care about. It looks like surviving, not living.

For me, depression shows up as isolation. When I’m in a low place, I shut down. I stop talking to people. I don’t go out, don’t reach out, don’t answer texts unless I absolutely have to. The people I live with are usually the only ones who hear my voice. It’s not that I don’t love my friends or family — it’s just that my energy feels completely drained. Even simple things like responding to a message can feel overwhelming.

It’s a strange thing, because I know I’m pulling away. I can see myself doing it. But it’s like I’m stuck behind glass, watching the world move on while I stay still. Depression has a way of convincing you that you’re better off alone, that you’re a burden, that nobody really wants to hear how you feel anyway. And when you believe that long enough, isolation starts to feel safer than connection — even when deep down, you crave connection the most.

And then there’s being a mom in the middle of it all. That part adds a whole new layer. Because when you’re struggling, you don’t get to hit pause. You still have little eyes watching you, little hands reaching for you, little hearts that need your love. You still have to make meals, help with homework, give hugs, and smile — even when smiling feels impossible.

Some days, I feel like I’m failing. Like I’m not doing enough or being enough. The guilt that comes with depression and motherhood is heavy. You want to be present and joyful, but your mind keeps pulling you under. There are moments when I’m physically there, but mentally I’m far away — lost in thoughts, worries, or just complete numbness.

But I also remind myself that showing up — even in the smallest ways — still matters. Some days, showing up looks like making breakfast. Some days, it’s sitting on the floor and playing for five minutes. Some days, it’s simply getting out of bed when everything in you wants to stay hidden. Those moments may feel small, but they’re still victories.

I’ve learned that it’s okay to not be okay. It’s okay to take a step back, to ask for help, to admit that you’re struggling. And it’s okay if healing doesn’t happen overnight. Depression doesn’t make you a bad mom, a bad friend, or a weak person. It makes you human.

So if you’re reading this and you relate — if you’ve been isolating, if you’re exhausted from pretending, if you’re doing your best just to keep going — please know you’re not alone. There are others who understand what it’s like to smile on the outside while you’re breaking on the inside.

You don’t have to have it all together to be a good mom, a good person, or to be loved. You just have to keep trying — in your own way, at your own pace.

One day, one small step, one breath at a time. 

How Did We Get to Five?

My Youngest Turns Five — How Did We Get Here?

Five.

It feels impossible to write that number. My youngest daughter is five years old today.

Five years since that first cry — the one that filled the delivery room and immediately quieted my heart. Five years since I held her against my chest, marveling at how someone so tiny could already take up so much space in my world. Five years since we brought her home, wrapped in blankets and dreams, to a house that would never feel quite the same again.

When people say “the days are long but the years are short,” I used to nod politely, not quite understanding. But now I feel it deep in my bones. Those early days — the sleepless nights, the endless feedings, the toddler tantrums — they felt endless while I was living them. But now, looking back, they blur into this golden haze of memories: the smell of her baby shampoo, the sound of her giggle, the weight of her small body falling asleep in my arms.

And somehow, through all of it, we’ve arrived here. Five.

At five, she is a whirlwind — equal parts imagination and determination. Her dolls run a full-scale restaurant in the living room, complete with menus, terrible service, and a strict no-grown-ups policy. She can spend hours drawing rainbows, then suddenly burst into song about whatever thought pops into her head. She loves fiercely, feels deeply, and negotiates like a tiny lawyer who knows exactly what she wants for breakfast.

She’s learning to write her name, to zip her coat, to tell jokes that make absolutely no sense but send her into fits of laughter anyway. She’s figuring out who she is — and every day, I get a front-row seat to the unfolding of this small, incredible human.

But five also feels like a goodbye. A quiet one.

Goodbye to the baby years. Goodbye to diapers, bottles, nap times, and lullabies whispered in the dark. Goodbye to the tiny hand that used to cling to mine just to make sure I was still there. She still reaches for me sometimes, but not always. She’s stepping into her own independence now — running ahead on the playground, making new friends, testing her courage in small but mighty ways.

And as proud as I am, my heart aches a little. Because this is the paradox of motherhood — we spend years teaching them to let go, all while trying to hold on just a little longer ourselves.

I look at her today — her birthday crown slightly crooked, frosting already on her fingers — and I can’t help but think how quickly these five years have gone. I want to press pause, just for a second, to memorize this version of her: the sassy look, the loud laugh, the way she still mispronounces “spaghetti.”

I know more milestones are coming — first days of school, first sleepovers, first heartbreaks. And I’ll be there for all of it, cheering her on, even as each year pulls her a little further into her own beautiful, independent story.

But today, I’m just sitting in the sweetness of now.

Five years ago, she made me a mother all over again. Five years later, she’s still teaching me how to love bigger, laugh louder, and live slower.

Happy birthday, my beautiful girl.
How lucky I am to be yours.

The World Doesn’t Need More Judges — It Needs More Jesus

“When Did We Forget Grace?”

A Reflection on Judgment, Love, and the Beauty of Our Differences

Every day, I see it — in the news, in conversations, even in the comments under social media posts.

It’s like the world has forgotten what grace looks like.

We judge before we understand.

We divide before we listen.

And we forget that behind every belief, every opinion, every color, and every story — there’s a human being just trying their best to make it through.

Let’s talk about it.

Christians or Not

Faith is supposed to unite us, not divide us. Yet, it’s become one of the biggest battlegrounds for judgment.

Some Christians are judged for not being “Christian enough.” Others are written off completely just for being Christian.

People who don’t believe are labeled as lost, and people who do are labeled as hypocrites.

But here’s the truth: none of us have it all figured out. Not one.

You can go to church every Sunday and still struggle with sin. You can skip church for years and still have the kindest, most giving heart. Faith isn’t a checklist or a scoreboard — it’s a journey.

Jesus didn’t walk with perfect people; He walked with the broken, the doubters, and the messy.

And if He could love them without judgment, maybe we should too.

Because at the end of the day, it’s not about which church you go to or what denomination you claim. It’s about love. It’s about the way you treat people. It’s about grace that reaches past religion and into humanity.

Republicans or Democrats

Politics — the word alone makes some of us tense up.

We’ve turned political beliefs into moral measurements.

People lose friends, break families apart, and tear each other down over red vs. blue — as if there’s no room in between.

We’ve stopped hearing each other.

We argue to win, not to understand.

But maybe the truth isn’t about one side being right and the other being wrong. Maybe it’s about remembering that behind every opinion is a person with their own experiences, fears, and reasons.

We can disagree without dishonoring.

We can stand firm in our beliefs without standing on someone else’s neck.

The world doesn’t need more people screaming politics. It needs more people living out compassion.

Because long after elections are over, kindness will still matter.

Tattoos, Piercings, and Crazy Hair Colors

Some of the most judgmental looks I’ve seen in my life weren’t over words — they were over appearances.

The girl with bright pink hair.

The man with tattoos up his arms.

The teen with piercings and black eyeliner.

For some reason, we’ve been conditioned to think that “different” means “wrong.”

But have you ever stopped and actually talked to those people?

Some of the most faith-filled, humble, generous souls I’ve met have inked skin and rainbow hair.

Tattoos don’t tell you what’s in someone’s heart. Hair dye doesn’t determine a person’s kindness.

God didn’t create us all the same — He created us uniquely. Intentionally. Beautifully different.

Maybe the person you’re tempted to judge for their looks is the one who would pray for you the loudest.

Because holiness has never been about appearance — it’s about the heart.

Gay or Not

This one gets heavy for some people, and it shouldn’t.

Because love — real love — shouldn’t be controversial.

We’ve created so much pain in the name of “righteousness.” We’ve weaponized Scripture to exclude instead of embrace.

But if Jesus came to love the broken, then who are we to decide who qualifies for His love?

You can believe in the Word and still choose compassion. You can hold your faith close and still hold someone else’s hand through their hurt.

Someone’s identity doesn’t cancel out their humanity.

And no matter what, every person deserves to know that they are loved, valued, and seen — not just by God, but by the people who claim to follow Him.

We don’t have to agree to show love.

We just have to remember that judgment never healed a soul — but love has healed millions.

The Color of Skin

If there’s one area where judgment has done the most damage, it’s this one.

It’s heartbreaking that in 2025, we still see division over something as unchangeable as skin.

No child is born hating another person. Hate is learned.

And if hate can be taught, love can be taught louder.

Different colors, cultures, and histories don’t make us competitors — they make us a masterpiece.

When God painted this world, He didn’t use one shade. He used them all.

So why do we still act like some colors shine brighter than others?

We need to be people who don’t just say, “I’m not racist,” but actually live love across every color line.

We need to raise kids who don’t see “different” as a warning sign but as a reason to celebrate.

Because heaven isn’t going to be one color — it’s going to look like the entire world.

The Truth Beneath It All

At the end of the day, it all comes back to this:

We judge what we don’t understand.

We fear what we don’t know.

We criticize what challenges our comfort.

But love — true, unconditional, Jesus-style love — doesn’t ask for comfort.

It asks for compassion.

We’re all walking through something. We’ve all made mistakes. We’ve all needed forgiveness we didn’t deserve.

So why do we withhold it from others?

Let’s stop labeling people by what they believe, how they look, or who they love — and start seeing them the way God does.

As human.

As valuable.

As worthy of grace.

Because when our final days come, God won’t ask what party we voted for or how many tattoos we had.

He’ll ask how we loved.

Maybe it’s time we start loving louder than we judge.

My Quiet Hours of Heartache

Tonight, as my girls sleep peacefully beside me, my heart feels anything but peace.

The house is quiet, but inside my mind it’s anything but. I keep replaying everything that’s happened — the loss, the pain, the disbelief — and all I can feel is this overwhelming guilt and heartbreak. Guilt that I get to tuck my babies in while my family faces the unthinkable. Guilt that I can still kiss my daughters goodnight while my sweet cousin can’t kiss hers anymore. It’s a kind of pain that words don’t quite reach.

I wish more than anything that I could take this pain away for my family. I wish I could undo it, fix it, trade places — anything to make it right. I wish our Skylar girl was still here. I can still see her smile, hear her laugh in my head, and it hurts so much to know she’s not here lighting up the world the way she did.

It’s just not fair. None of it is. No child should ever have to face something so cruel. No parent should ever have to watch their baby suffer, to be strong when their whole world is breaking. I hate it — I hate this illness, I hate what it steals, I hate that it exists at all. And yet, in the middle of all that hate, there’s this fierce love that remains — love for Skylar, for her mama and daddy, for her brother, for Nini and Pop, for everyone who loved her so deeply.

Skylar’s story changed us. Her courage, her laughter, her light — it’ll never fade. And while the pain feels unbearable right now, I know her spirit is still with us. I picture her coloring the skies with her bright imagination, surrounded by rubber ducks, sunflowers, and endless sunshine. I like to believe she’s free from pain now — dancing, smiling, and sending us reminders that she’s still here, just in a different way.

So tonight, I’ll hold my girls a little tighter. I’ll whisper a prayer for my family and for every parent who’s faced this kind of heartbreak. And I’ll promise — we’ll keep fighting, loving, remembering, and spreading awareness for children like Skylar. Because their stories deserve to be told.

Letter to Skylar Rose

My Sweet Skylar,

I’m so sorry, beautiful girl… sorry I didn’t fight harder — sooner. Sorry I didn’t reach out more, didn’t come visit sooner, didn’t take the time to truly know you the way I wish I had. I’m sorry for every moment I missed and every chance I didn’t take. Most of all, I’m sorry that someone as bright and full of love as you had to walk such a hard and painful road.

But even in that heartbreak, I am so incredibly proud to call you family. In the brief but precious time I got to see your smile, hear your laugh even while you were sleeping, and spend time with your amazing mommy, daddy, Nini, and Pop, I saw a strength in you that moved mountains. And I saw that same strength shining through the people who love you most. You were brave beyond words — stronger than anyone should ever have to be — and your spirit will forever live in the hearts of all who love you.

I promise you this, sweet girl: this cousin of yours will never stop fighting for your family. I’ll never stop fighting for our family. Even though you’re no longer here to hold, I know you’re close — watching over them, and all of us, with that radiant smile. I can almost see you now — dancing and singing in Heaven, playing with your rubber duckies, painting skies with the most beautiful colors imaginable.

And I make you one more promise, Skylar: I will not stop. Not now, not ever. I will fight for every single child facing this cruel illness. I will speak their names, share their stories, and push for change — for you, for our family, and for every little warrior who deserves more time, more hope, and more miracles. Until my very last breath, I’ll carry this fight within me.

I’ll carry you within me.

With all my love,

Your Cousin Lexi

The Little Girl Who Taught Me Strength

October 6, 2025

For Our Sweet Skylar

Today, our sweet Skylar took her last breath on Earth and her first breath in Heaven. She’s no longer hurting. No more IVs, no more oxygen tanks, no more needles, no more medicines, no more tests, no more pain. She has her angel wings now, and though our hearts are breaking, we know she is finally free.

Skylar was only three and a half years old, but she lived a life of bravery and light far beyond her years. She’s been fighting since she turned one, and she fought harder than anyone I’ve ever known. Even in her hardest days, she smiled, she loved, and she brought a glow with her that none of us will ever forget.

I’m so thankful I got the chance to meet you, sweet cousin. Our family needed you. Even in your short time here, you touched us all so deeply. Your mommy, daddy, and brother loved you more than words could ever hold. Your grandparents loved you so much too. They all would have done anything to save you. Every single person who loved you would have saved you — including me. I would have done anything. But it was your time, and God’s arms were ready to hold you when ours had to let go.

Your life may have been short, but it was powerful. You taught us about strength, about hope, and about love that doesn’t end, even when someone leaves this earth. You’ve left a mark on all of us that time will never erase.

Fly high, beautiful Skylar. Heaven gained an angel, but we lost a piece of our hearts. We will keep you alive in our stories, our memories, and our love until the day we meet again.

The Bittersweet Truth About Outgrowing People You Once Called Family

When Seasons Change: The Pain of Outgrowing People You Once Called Family

There’s a unique kind of heartbreak that comes when people who once felt like family suddenly stop showing up in your life — not because of anything you did, not because of a fight or falling out, but simply because you no longer attend the same church, share the same routines, or run in the same social circles.

It’s a quiet kind of grief. One day, they’re part of your everyday — the people you lean on, laugh with, pray with, plan with — and the next, they’re just… not. The group chats go silent. The invitations stop coming. You catch glimpses of them online or in passing, and the memories flood back. And you can’t help but wonder: Was it ever real?

The truth is, some relationships were never meant to last a lifetime. And that’s a hard pill to swallow. They were meant to shape us, teach us, walk with us through a chapter — but not necessarily stay until the end of the story.

But even in the ache of that realization, there’s a powerful lesson to be found: real love and real friendship don’t come with conditions. They don’t hinge on shared schedules or identical beliefs. They don’t disappear when life shifts or paths diverge. The right people — your people — will stay. Not because you’re the same, but because they see you, value you, and choose you even when life looks different.

If you’re in that space right now — mourning relationships you thought would last forever — know this: it’s okay to feel the hurt. It’s okay to grieve the version of your life that included them. But don’t let their absence make you question your worth. You haven’t done anything wrong. You’re simply growing, evolving, and stepping into new seasons.

And sometimes, the most loving thing you can do — for them and for yourself — is to let them go with grace. Thank them for the season they were in your life. Carry the good memories with you. And keep walking forward with an open heart, trusting that the ones who are meant to stay will walk beside you, no matter where your paths may lead.