Lately, I’ve been tired in a way that sleep doesn’t fix.
Not the kind of tired that disappears after a good night or a quiet morning, but the kind that settles into your bones and shows up again the next day. The kind that makes small things feel heavier than they should. Motherhood has felt like that for me in this season : beautiful, meaningful, and also deeply demanding.
The days feel full from the moment they begin. There is always something that needs attention: a question to answer, a behaviour to correct, a boundary to reinforce, an emotion to hold. And by the end of the day, I often realise how much of myself has been poured out in small, unnoticed ways. I love my child, but loving well takes energy, and lately, I’ve felt short on it.
What has worn me down most isn’t the busyness as much as the weight of responsibility. The knowing that my responses matter. That how I discipline shapes not just behaviour, but heart. That consistency, patience, and clarity are required even when I feel anything but consistent, patient, or clear.
Disciplining, especially, has felt exhausting. I noticed that I had begun approaching it already tense, already expecting it to go badly. Somewhere along the way, I had started assuming resistance before it even appeared. I was bracing myself for disobedience instead of believing obedience was possible. And that mindset quietly shaped everything.
When you expect constant pushback, you live on edge.
When you assume the worst, every moment feels like a fight.
No wonder I was tired.
There were days when I felt discouraged by how hard it all seemed. And then discouraged by my own discouragement. I wondered why something so good could feel so draining. I didn’t say that out loud very often, but the question lived quietly inside me.
I also didn’t notice how much I had begun carrying all of this on my own.
I was thinking through strategies alone.
Processing frustrations alone.
Trying to “get it right” alone.
And then, slowly, gently, the Lord began to interrupt that pattern.
Not with a sudden breakthrough. Not with a dramatic moment. Just a steady, persistent reminder that I was not meant to do this in my own strength. That the Holy Spirit was not waiting for me to fail before stepping in. He was already present, already available, already willing to help.
It struck me how rarely I was actually asking.
Asking for wisdom in the moment.
Asking for patience when mine ran thin.
Asking for help when I felt overwhelmed.
I had somehow absorbed the idea that I should be able to handle this, that maturity meant self-sufficiency. But Scripture tells a different story.
“My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” (2 Corinthians 12:9)
That verse didn’t feel abstract anymore. It felt practical. Almost relieving. As though God was saying, “You don’t have to hide your weakness here. This is exactly where I meet you.”
Jesus’ invitation felt especially tender during this season:
“Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” (Matthew 11:28)
I used to think rest meant escape, time away, fewer demands, a quieter life. But I’m learning that rest can also mean release. Releasing the pressure to have all the answers. Releasing the belief that everything depends on me. Letting go of the need to be endlessly strong.
Alongside this, I felt prompted to look beyond myself, to seek the wisdom of older mothers who have walked this road longer than I have. Women who love the Lord and are honest about their struggles. Women who remind me that learning how to discipline well is a process, not a failure.
There is something grounding about being reminded that growth takes time. That no one arrives at motherhood fully formed.
One of the most freeing shifts for me has been in how I view discipline itself. I realised I had been afraid of it, afraid of doing it wrong, afraid of being too harsh, afraid of damaging the relationship. That fear made me hesitant, inconsistent, and ultimately more exhausted.
But discipline, rooted in love, is not something to avoid. It is something to learn.
“The Lord disciplines the one he loves.” (Hebrews 12:6)
As I began to hold clearer boundaries and expect obedience, not angrily, not anxiously, but calmly and confidently, I noticed something surprising: I felt lighter. I wasn’t constantly second-guessing myself. I wasn’t entering every situation already defeated. Letting go of fear changed not just how I parented, but how I felt.
Motherhood is still tiring. The days are still full. I still end some evenings worn out. But I no longer feel emptied in the same way. I am learning to lean, to ask for help, to pray mid-moment, and to trust that God is actively involved in the work of raising a child.
“He gives power to the faint, and to him who has no might he increases strength.” (Isaiah 40:29)
Grace, I’m discovering, doesn’t always arrive with a bang. Often it comes quietly, through a remembered verse, a timely conversation, a small shift in perspective. It doesn’t remove the work, but it changes how the work is carried.
And in this weary season, that quiet grace has been enough.
Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash
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