The Kind of Tired That Needs Mercy

This break didn’t look the way I thought it would.

Instead of outings and plans and soaking up time the way I imagined, I spent the second half of it in bed, healing from surgery, moving slowly, watching the days pass quieter than expected.

And somewhere in that quiet, guilt found me.

I saw a post about winter break 

“slow mornings, sleeping in, snuggling kids, lingering over breakfast. No backpacks. No schedules. No rushing out the door”

And it hit harder than I expected.

Not because it was wrong.

But because it reminded me of what I thought this break was supposed to look like.

I found myself wondering if my kids deserved more.

If resting meant I failed them.

If needing my body to heal somehow took something away from them.

But the truth is, my body didn’t ask for permission.

It asked for care.

Rest wasn’t optional.

Healing wasn’t a luxury.

It was necessary.

Still, that doesn’t erase the ache and the quiet grief of watching moments pass differently than planned, the comparisons that sneak in looking at everyone’s pictures on Facebook, the feeling that rest somehow equals falling short.

I’m learning that two things can be true at the same time.

I can be grateful for healing and sad about what we missed.

I can love my kids deeply and feel limited in my body.

I can rest and wrestle with guilt.

We did have slow mornings they just weren’t the picture-perfect kind.

We had togetherness just shaped by a body that needed stillness.

Love didn’t disappear because I was in bed. It simply showed up quieter.

Like Hudson cuddling up beside me, or Penelopi making sure I could reach my cup. Or all of us watching paw patrol.  

This is the kind of tired that sleep alone doesn’t fix.

It’s the tired that comes from carrying a lot for a long time.

The tired that needs mercy more than motivation.

I keep reminding myself — sometimes softly, sometimes on repeat — that God is not disappointed in my stillness. 

He is not measuring my motherhood by productivity or performance. 

He sees the unseen work of healing, the surrender it takes to slow down, the courage it takes to listen when your body finally says enough.

Maybe this season wasn’t about making the most of a break.

Maybe it was about making room for grace.

For myself.

For my body.

For a version of motherhood that looks quieter right now 

but is no less full of love.

“Come to me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” — Matthew 11:28

If rest feels like failure today, I’m trying to believe this instead:

Sometimes rest is faith.

Sometimes rest is obedience.

Sometimes rest is exactly what love looks like.