Savvy Sophistication

Motherhood didn’t begin for me in the typical way.

It found me—in the middle of grief, loss, and life turning upside down.

When my sister passed away, my husband and I adopted her daughter, Izabella, at just three years old. In a single decision, I became a mother, not because I was ready, but because love demanded it. And love doesn’t wait for convenience.

There was no baby shower, no nesting season, no gentle transition. I went from aunt to mama overnight. And while my heart broke from the weight of grief, it also began to swell with a new kind of love—one I didn’t know could live alongside pain. Becoming her mother was one of Gods greatest gift to me. He left a piece of Brianna with me. It healed a crater sized hole in my heart.

I wasn’t just learning how to be a mother; I was learning how to be her mother—through trauma, transition, and tender healing. Parenting Izabella meant listening more deeply, loving more patiently, and trusting God more boldly than ever before.

Then Samuel came. He was born on my sister’s birthday. The first birthday without her, and God blessed us with one less sad day.

Tiny. New. Needing me in all the ways Izabella didn’t anymore.

Suddenly, I was a beginner mom and an intermediate mom at the same time—navigating diapers and breast feeding, while also helping a little girl grow roots in a family rebuilt by faith and trust in God. The two paths required different versions of me, and some days I didn’t know who I needed to be. But every day, I chose love.

Samuel’s journey brought different battles. Speech delays. Severe eczema. Specialist after specialist. Some days, it felt like every part of his little body was crying out for help, and there were moments I didn’t know what else to do but cry with him. My husband and I were so frustrated know he was in pain, and to make it worse he couldn’t speak about it.

Still, God met us in every single one of those moments.

Not in the thunder or lightning, but in the whisper—just like He met Elijah on the mountain:

“And after the earthquake a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire. And after the fire the sound of a low whisper.”

—1 Kings 19:12

It wasn’t the loud answers I needed—it was the quiet reminders that He was near. That He saw me.

In the laundry piles.

In the dermatologist waiting rooms.

In the whispered prayers over fevers and frustrations.

He was there.

When I think of the kind of love it takes to mother through brokenness, I think of Hagar. The woman in Genesis 16 who ran into the wilderness with a child, overwhelmed, discarded, and afraid—yet God found her there. He called her by name, and in that barren place, she named Him El Roi, the God who sees.

“You are the God who sees me… I have now seen the One who sees me.”

—Genesis 16:13

I’ve felt like Hagar. Tired. Unnoticed. Pouring out everything I had and still wondering if it was enough.

And yet—He saw me.

He saw us.

And like the widow of Zarephath in 1 Kings 17, who had just enough flour and oil to make one last meal for her and her son, God kept multiplying what little strength I had. Every day, He gave me just enough grace, just enough peace, and just enough hope to keep going.

“The jar of flour was not used up and the jug of oil did not run dry, in keeping with the word of the Lord…”

—1 Kings 17:16

Motherhood hasn’t been Pinterest-perfect. It’s been real, raw, and redemptive.

There are days the house is a mess and the laundry never ends.

There are nights when exhaustion feels like my second skin.

But there’s joy in the noise.

There’s glory in the mess.

And there’s grace in the gap between what I am and what they need.

God didn’t give me this journey because I was strong enough.

He gave it to me so I could lean on His strength.

Motherhood has been the fulfillment of a promise I didn’t even know I needed.

So if you’re reading this and you’re in the thick of it too—if your hands are full and your heart is tired—please know that you’re not failing.

You’re growing.

You’re becoming.

You’re being used—by a God who sees you and strengthens you in the quiet, holy moments that no one else applauds.

I wouldn’t trade a single tear or tantrum. Not one appointment, sleepless night, or messy memory.

Because in all the chaos, I found a kind of beauty I never would’ve known without the brokenness.

Motherhood isn’t easy.

But it’s incredible.

And it’s mine.

An assignment I will never stop being grateful for.

Love,

C