To the Moms, the Mother-Hearts, and the Waiting Hearts

Dear friend,

Mother’s Day is almost here, and I want to start by saying this: however this week finds your heart, there’s room for you here.

For some, this season overflows with hand-drawn cards and sticky kisses, with brunch plans and the hum of celebration. But for many others, Mother’s Day carries a quieter tone — a complicated blend of joy, exhaustion, longing, or even grief. I’ve come to believe that both can be true at once: motherhood can be beautiful and brutal, full of deep meaning and deep ache.

So I wanted to write this letter — not just for the moms with little ones tugging at their hems, but also for the women whose nurturing hearts haven’t always had a place to land. This is for you, too.

To the moms in the thick of it...

You’re showing up every day in a million unseen ways. From breakfast crumbs to bedtime prayers, your love is woven into the smallest moments. I know some days it feels like you’re giving everything you have and wondering if it’s enough. It is. You are. Even when no one else sees it — heaven does. Your work matters more than you know. This is holy work. This is sacred work. Your Father finds joy in watching you move in and out of your day, and He smiles with tenderness at the love you quietly pour out. Nothing you do in love is ever wasted.

To the grandmas, stepmoms, and spiritual mothers...

You fill spaces with wisdom, presence, and patience. Maybe you’re holding traditions together, standing in the gap, or showing up for children who aren’t biologically yours. Your role may not always be celebrated loudly, but it’s deeply significant. You are a vital thread in the fabric of family.

To the ones who are waiting or grieving...

This day can feel like a spotlight on what hasn’t come or what’s been lost. I see you. I’ve been you. The ache of showing up when everyone else is celebrating. The sharp pains of getting out of bed when everything feels heavy and dark. The agony of answering peoples questions when they mean to help but every word is a dagger to your aching heart. If this day brings tears instead of joy, you are not broken. You are brave.

To the women who long to be seen...

Maybe you’ve poured yourself into others for years, with little thanks or recognition. Maybe you’ve mothered through mentorship, friendship, caregiving — all without a title. Please hear this: you do not need a child in your arms to have a mother-heart. You matter. You are not invisible in this space. You have so much to give and give it in a beautiful way to those around you. What you do matters. Thank you for showing up every day in precious, unseen, and faithful ways.

To the Moms, the Mother-Hearts, and the Waiting Hearts, you are not alone…

I have found myself in many parts of this story.

There was a season when I was a young mom with three little boys under the age of four — knee-deep in diapers, dirt, and dandelions. The days were long and often exhausting, but also filled with sticky-fingered wonder, wild giggles, and so much beauty. I didn’t know then just how much those ordinary days were laying the foundation for the strength I would soon need.

Because everything changed when I lost my husband — their father — while I was just thirteen weeks pregnant with our daughter. In an instant, I went from a mom in the thick of it to a woman holding her whole world together with one hand while cradling a breaking heart in the other.

For seven Mother’s Days after that, I walked through the ache of loss and the weight of doing it alone. The loneliness was sharp. The longing, relentless. I smiled for my children, made pancakes, opened hand-drawn cards — all while carrying the silent grief of who wasn’t there. Each year felt like another reminder of what was missing, and of how much strength love sometimes requires.

And yet… even in the ache, there was goodness. There was grace that met me in my lowest places. There was light that kept breaking through in small, sacred ways — a whispered prayer, a friend's kindness, my child’s laugh, the tenderness of the Father showing up when I was broken on my kitchen floor after the kids had gone to bed.

I share this not to make your pain feel smaller or your joy feel guilty — but to say that wherever this Mother's Day finds you, you are not unseen. Whether you're mothering in the chaos, waiting with hope, grieving what was, or holding both joy and sorrow in the same breath — you belong here. You are loved here.

A blessing for your heart

So here’s my prayer for you this Mother’s Day:

May you feel seen, loved, and held.
May you let go of the pressure to do more and instead receive the gift of simply being.
May you know, deep in your bones, that your presence is a gift to the world.

Happy Mother’s Day — in whatever form this season takes for you. I’m so glad you’re here.

With love, Kim