Counting My Blessings, Carrying Their Pain

Holding Gratitude and Grief: A Mama’s Reflection as the Year Comes to a Close

As we move toward the end of the year, I’ve found myself slowing down more often. Not physically—I’m still tripping over shoes in the hallway, refereeing arguments, and trying to keep everyone fed and semi-clean—but emotionally. I’m pausing, I’m noticing, I’m feeling things more deeply than I used to.

Maybe it’s because the girls are growing so quickly. Maybe it’s because motherhood has softened parts of me I didn’t even know were hard. Or maybe it’s simply that this year has held so many reminders of how fragile life truly is.

Whatever the reason, I’ve been sitting with a lot of gratitude lately. Real, soul-deep gratitude.
For my daughters’ laughter echoing through the house.
For the chaos of school mornings.
For late-night snuggles, even when I’m exhausted.
For the privilege of watching them become who they’re meant to be.

These are gifts I don’t ever want to overlook.

But in the very same breath, I’m also carrying a heaviness—an awareness of the parents who aren’t tucking their children in tonight. The mothers who will never again hear that laughter. The families whose lives shifted in an instant this year, leaving them with a grief that reshapes everything.

It feels impossible sometimes, holding both gratitude for what I have and heartbreak for those who have lost so much. But I’m learning that this is part of motherhood too: expanding our hearts enough to hold multiple truths at once.

I can be thankful—deeply, endlessly thankful—for my girls.
And I can also mourn for mothers whose lives have been forever changed.
This isn’t contradiction. It’s compassion.

When I see my daughters dancing in the kitchen or arguing over who gets the last waffle, I’m reminded how fragile these moments are. And instead of getting frustrated (okay, sometimes I still get frustrated), I’m trying to shift my perspective. I’m trying to appreciate even the imperfect moments because they’re moments I’m still fortunate enough to have.

I think about the moms out there whose arms feel too empty. The parents who are learning to navigate holidays, birthdays, and normal days with a heartbreak that never fully goes away. I don’t pretend to understand their pain, but I hold space for it. I pray for them. I honor their children by slowing down and really seeing mine.

Motherhood has never been just about raising children—it’s about being part of a shared experience with other moms. We feel each other’s joys and heartbreaks, even from afar. And when one of us suffers the unimaginable, the rest of us carry a piece of that grief too.

So as this year wraps up, I’m choosing to be more intentional.
To appreciate ordinary days.
To be patient when everything feels chaotic.
To say “thank you” more often.
To hug my girls tighter—even when they're squirmy and giggling and trying to wriggle away.

And I’m choosing to keep praying for every parent who has lost a child this year. Their stories matter. Their children matter. Their grief deserves gentleness, acknowledgment, and love.

If you’re reading this and you’ve experienced that kind of loss, I hope you feel held—maybe not in a way that fixes anything, but in a way that reminds you that you’re not alone. I hope you feel seen and remembered as others move through their days.

For the rest of us, may we move forward with both gratitude and awareness. May we cherish what we have without taking it for granted. May we honor the families who can only hold their children in memory now, even as we hold ours close.

Love is precious. Time is fragile. And as mothers, our hearts are big enough to hold it all.