The morning sun filters through the blinds, casting golden patterns on the living room floor. My five-year-old, still in pajamas, builds a tower of blocks as her laughter echoes through the house. My three-year-old (loud and wild as ever) is making “rawr” noises in the background, throwing his socks across the room and prancing around like the master dinosaur he is every morning.
Amid the chaos of scattered toys and an overflowing laundry basket, I pause, coffee in hand, and take a deep breath (the first of many to follow this morning). This is motherhood—messy, unpredictable, sometimes exhausting and profoundly sacred.
As Mother’s Day approached this year, I found myself reflecting not just on the love I have for my children, but on the journey I’ve taken as a mother and the sacrifices of the mothers before me, starting with my own mother.
In years past, I might have hoped for a quiet breakfast, a heartfelt card, maybe a break from the dishes (or from laundry for sure!). But this year, what I found myself truly craving was presence—the ability to slow down and be in the moment with an open heart, without worrying about the next task that must be checked off the never-ending to-do list. What I wanted was peace, the ability to sit with gratitude more than self-judgment, and grace.
In my early days of motherhood, I chased perfection. I believed that a clean house, well-behaved children, and a perfectly planned day were the marks of a “good mom.” I measured my worth by productivity, comparing myself to curated images online, glimpses of my peers’ lives and my own unrealistic standards.
Beneath that exterior, however, I was exhausted, anxious and spiritually depleted. I was doing everything, but rarely just being. In fact, I was judging myself for letting myself simply be, as if rest and presence weren’t enough because there is no tangible output that can be visibly measured by those things.
Eventually, at the end of a particularly difficult day filled with toddler meltdowns, juggling competing tasks at work and a burned dinner, I found myself sitting on the kitchen floor with tears streaming down my face. In that moment of surrender, I realized something had to shift.
I needed to let go—not just of perfectionism, but of the illusion that I had to earn love or holiness through performance. I needed to come back to the present moment—not as an escape, but as an offering.
Gratitude as a mindful prayer
My shift began with small acts of mindfulness, deeply rooted in my faith. Rather than rushing into each day in survival mode, I began pausing with a breath and a simple prayer before getting out of bed:
Lord, I offer you my thoughts, my words, my inconveniences and pains, and all of my actions today. Please take them all and use them, allow me to offer them up and to know you are here with me every step of the way, even if I cannot see you and especially in the moments where I doubt or feel alone. Please guide me on this day.
That daily act of surrender helped me slow down and become more aware—not just of what was going wrong, but of what was going right. The sticky kisses, the belly laughs, the shared giggles over spilled cereal. The gift of my children reaching for my hand.
This awareness naturally led to gratitude. I began thanking God not just for the big things—health, safety, milestones—but for the ordinary and overlooked:
- A quiet moment during naptime.
- A hug that came right when I needed it.
- A sense of peace in the middle of a chaotic bedtime routine.
Gratitude became my anchor. Not a forced positivity, but a habit of seeing God’s goodness, even in the mess.
Mindfulness, the rosary and the present
Mindfulness doesn’t conflict with my faith—it strengthens it. In fact, the Church has long taught the value of contemplation and presence. Saints like Thérèse of Lisieux lived holiness through “the little way”—offering small acts with great love. Mindfulness helps me return to this path, again and again.
Even my Rosary has become less of a checklist and more of a meditation. I don’t always finish all five decades in one sitting, but I carry the mysteries with me through the day. The Nativity reminds me to find God in humble beginnings. The Carrying of the Cross reminds me to love even when I’m weary. The Resurrection fills me with hope, especially on days when I feel like I’m failing.
Let motherhood be your prayer
This Mother’s Day, I didn’t ask for a perfect day (although, thanks to my wonderful husband and cheerful babies, I did have a great one). What I did ask for was a heart more open to the moment I’m in. I want to receive what each day brings—not just endure it or fix it, but welcome it with trust and learn to let go of a constant need for control.
I think of Mary, the Mother of God, whose life wasn’t easy or Instagram-worthy. She lived quietly, attentively, with faithfulness and love. She pondered things in her heart. She suffered, waited, hoped. She reminds me that God is found in simplicity and honesty, not spectacle.
So, to any mother reading this: You don’t have to do more, be more or fix everything. You’re already doing sacred work. Let your motherhood be your prayer. Let your presence be your gift. Let gratitude open your heart to grace, again and again.
Because God isn’t waiting for you to get it all right. He’s already here—in the spills, in the songs, in the sacred ordinary. And so is Mary, gently guiding us, embracing and covering us with her motherly and loving mantle, one breath at a time.
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