Holding Littles, Middles, and Almost‑Grown

The Hard, the Holy, and the Stretch of Motherhood

The Three Stages I’m Holding

I’m in this interesting point in life where I get to hold three completely different stages of childhood at once. I have been blessed to nanny my youngest niece and nephew over the last 2 years — tiny hands, snack negotiations, nap schedules, and the sweet chaos of early childhood all over again.

I’m also learning the ropes with my second graduated kid — two “basically‑adult children” now — navigating independence, big decisions, and the slow, emotional release that comes with watching them step into their own lives.

And right in the middle of it all is my tween — not little anymore, not big yet, standing in that tender in‑between where everything is changing and nothing feels simple. She keeps me grounded in the right now while the littles pull me backward and the big kids pull me forward.

The Overlap

(the place where all your worlds meet)

It’s a strange overlap — this season where I’m holding littles, a tween, and grown kids all at once. A place where I’m pulled backward and forward and anchored in the middle, sometimes all in the same breath. It’s the kind of overlap that stretches you, softens you, and surprises you with the perspective it gives.

It’s a gift, really.
Because it lets me see motherhood from every angle at the same time.

I’m rocking babies while letting go of grown ones. I’m guiding a tween through the messy middle. I’m wiping little noses while praying big prayers. I’m teaching ABCs while trusting that the values I poured into my older kids will carry them farther than I can.

This overlap is where the sweetness and the ache live side by side — where the grit meets the grace, and where the hard things somehow make room for the holy ones.

The Autoimmune Layer

Living with autoimmune disease adds a quiet, complicated layer to every season I’m in. It’s the part most people don’t see — the energy math, the pacing, the constant negotiation between what my heart wants to do and what my body can realistically handle.

Some days I can keep up with the littles, the tween, the big kids, the house, the work, the life.
Some days I can’t.
And the hardest part is that it’s never predictable.

Autoimmune life means learning to listen to a body that doesn’t always match the season I’m in. It means honoring limits I didn’t choose. It means carrying a kind of invisible weight while still trying to show up for the people I love.

But maybe that’s part of the perspective too — the way chronic illness forces you to slow down enough to notice things you might have rushed past. The way it teaches you to savor the small moments, to protect your energy, to choose what matters, to let go of what doesn’t.

It’s the reminder that every stage has its own hard.
Its own holy.
Its own stretch.

· · · ❧ · · ·
“Every stage has its own hard, its own holy, its own stretch.”
· · · ❧ · · ·

And autoimmune life is woven right into that — not the whole story, but a thread that shapes the way I move through it.

Because…

Toddler tantrums are hard.

Teenage independence is hard.

Pick your hard.

· · · ❧ · · ·

Waking up every two hours with a newborn is hard.

Lying awake at midnight waiting for a teenager to get home is hard.

Pick your hard.

· · · ❧ · · ·

Teaching them to walk is hard.

Teaching them to drive is hard.

Pick your hard.

· · · ❧ · · ·

Teaching boundaries to a toddler is hard.

Holding boundaries with a nearly-grown child who has opinions, dreams, and a whole life forming is hard.

Pick your hard.

· · · ❧ · · ·

Tween emotions are hard.

Letting go of big kids is hard.

Pick your hard.

· · · ❧ · · ·

Changing diapers all day is hard.

Changing your parenting style for a teenager is hard.

Pick your hard.

· · · ❧ · · ·

Being needed every second is hard.

Not being needed as much anymore is hard.

Pick your hard.

· · · ❧ · · ·

Teaching a toddler to use their words is hard.

Teaching a tween to use their voice kindly is hard.

Pick your hard.

· · · ❧ · · ·

Living with an autoimmune flare is hard.

Pretending you’re fine when your body is screaming is hard.

Pick your hard.

· · · ❧ · · ·

Saying yes to everything is hard.

Saying no and disappointing people is hard.

Pick your hard.

· · · ❧ · · ·

Carrying the mental load is hard.

Letting some of it drop is hard.

Pick your hard.

· · · ❧ · · ·

Running on empty is hard.

Slowing down long enough to refill is hard.

Pick your hard.

· · · ❧ · · ·

Being everything for everyone is hard.

Letting yourself be human is hard.

Pick your hard.

· · · ❧ · · ·

Tween emotions are hard.

Letting go of big kids is hard.

Pick your hard.

· · · ❧ · · ·

Parenting littles is hard.

Standing steady in the middle years is hard.

Releasing the almost‑grown is hard.

Pick your hard.

The Perspective It Gives Me

Standing in all three worlds at once — littles, the messy middle, and the almost‑grown — gives me a kind of perspective I didn’t know I needed. It slows me down and stretches me out at the same time. It reminds me that motherhood isn’t linear; it’s layered. It loops back on itself. It circles, deepens, softens, and reshapes you as you go.

It makes me notice things I might have missed the first time around. The way a toddler’s meltdown is really just overwhelm. The way a tween’s mood swing is really just growing pains. The way a teenager’s distance is really just independence forming. The way a grown child’s silence is really just them learning to stand on their own.

It makes me grateful for the small things — the tiny hands, the eye rolls, the late‑night texts, the unexpected hugs, the moments when they still need me and the moments when they don’t.

It makes me gentler with myself, too. Because I can see now that every version of me — the young mom, the tired mom, the learning mom, the stretching mom — was doing the best she could with what she had.

And maybe that’s the real gift of this season:
the way it lets me hold the sweetness and the ache at the same time. The way it reminds me that the hard things don’t cancel out the holy ones. The way it shows me that growth and grace often show up together.

Somehow, living in all three worlds at once makes me appreciate each one more deeply — the sweetness, the ache, the growth, the grit, the grace.

A Gentle Reminder

In the end, this season is teaching me that there’s no “easy” version of motherhood — just the version you’re living, the one shaping you in ways you don’t always see until you look back.

Whatever hard you’re carrying today, I hope you feel a little less alone in it. We’re all walking our own story of motherhood, doing the best we can with the hearts we’ve been given, and praying for God to bridge the gaps we cannot see.