Syntax & Sippy Cups

I’m writing this in the middle of what people often call “the newborn trenches.” It's that foggy, tender stretch of time when the days and nights blur together and everything smells like spit-up, milk, and whatever you last microwaved but never ate. You know—those days where you’re never alone, but somehow feel so lonely.

This is my third baby. You’d think I’d be better at this by now, or at least more emotionally prepared. But the truth? I still find myself caught off guard by how heavy these early weeks can feel—not just physically, but spiritually and emotionally too.

My husband is present. Really present. He wants to help. He wants to understand. He’ll take the baby, wrangle the toddlers, bring me water in the middle of the night. And still… I feel like a burden. I find myself thinking, I should be able to do this. I should be able to handle the baby and the house and the tantrums and the endless snack demands. I shouldn’t need so much help.

But I do.

And even though I’m never alone—there’s always a baby on me, a toddler tugging at my pants, a question being asked—I crave something I can’t fully explain. I want to be alone… but not really alone. I want someone nearby, but not talking. Just quietly existing with me. Like a silent witness to these long days and long nights who just gets it without needing anything from me in return.

Do you ever feel that too?

There are moments—beautiful, sacred moments—where I look down at this new little girl, her soft cheeks pressed against my chest, her little breaths keeping time with my heartbeat, and I feel something close to peace. But sometimes, those same snuggles feel like a hiding place. I find myself clutching her like a shield, using her as an excuse to step away from the chaos of the older kids, the mess, the noise. And then the guilt sets in. Am I escaping? Am I neglecting my other kids in the name of bonding with her?

How can something so holy also feel so heavy?

It’s hard to admit these things. It feels wrong to say that holding your newborn feels suffocating sometimes. Or that even the people who love you deeply can’t quite reach you in certain moments. Or that even though you believe God is near, He still feels out of reach—like you’re calling into the fog and hoping your voice carries far enough to find Him.

This season has made me question the “ministry” of motherhood. I know it matters. I believe my children can see Jesus through my love for them. But when it’s 2 a.m. and the baby won’t settle, and the toddler is crying for water and the laundry pile looks like it’s plotting a coup… it’s hard to see any eternal fruit. The grind feels like just a grind. And sometimes I wonder—Is this really ministry?

But then I remember: ministry isn’t always loud or visible or celebrated. Sometimes it looks like wiping noses and microwaving meals you never finish and whispering prayers you’re not sure you mean. Sometimes ministry looks like choosing gentleness when you want to snap. Or holding space for your kids’ big feelings while yours sit quietly on the back burner.

It looks like showing up—again and again—because love does.

And maybe that’s what God is teaching me right now. That He’s not just found in the quiet morning devotions or the mountaintop moments. He’s in the middle of the monotony too. In the 3 a.m. feedings. In the tears you don’t even have the energy to cry. In the whispered, weary, “Help me, Jesus.”

He is here, even when He feels far. He doesn’t need me to feel strong to be strong for me. He doesn’t need me to feel full of faith to remain faithful. He is the anchor, even when I feel like I’m drowning. His strength is perfected in my weakness.

If you’re reading this and nodding along—maybe in your own version of the trenches—I just want to say: You’re not alone. You’re not broken. You’re not failing because this feels hard. And you’re not less spiritual because your prayers sound more like sighs these days.

Let’s ask ourselves gently:

• What if our feelings aren’t wrong, but just evidence that this work is heavy and sacred?
• What if the desire to escape isn’t failure, but a signal that we need rest—real rest—in Jesus, not guilt?
• What if God is closer than we think, even if we can’t always sense Him? Motherhood is refining. It strips us of our illusions of control, our tidy theology, our ability to present a filtered version of ourselves. And that stripping? It’s holy too.

I don’t have a tidy bow to wrap around this. I’m still in the thick of it. But I’m learning to breathe here, to find God here, and to let grace be enough when I feel like I’m not.

So, if you're feeling tired and tangled up in emotions you can’t quite name, know this: you're not alone in it. And maybe—just maybe—God is doing something eternal right here in the middle of the mess.

Because the truth is—I’m holding her. And some days, that feels like more than I can bear. But God is holding me.

He’s holding me in the moments no one sees. In the middle of the night feedings, the toddler meltdowns, the quiet cries I don’t say out loud. He’s holding me when I feel like I’m slipping. He’s holding me when I feel guilty, lost, or numb. He doesn’t pull away from the fog—I find Him in it.

So I’ll keep holding her. And I’ll trust that He’s holding me.

Isaiah 41:10 “So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.”