The Days I'll Miss -

I imagine myself thirty years from now, sitting in a quiet house. The floors stay clean. The counters remain clear. No sticky fingerprints on the windows. And I imagine my heart swelling with the sweetest, most tender ache—missing this—all of it—with a longing so deep it fills every corner of my soul.

I mean honestly, the panic of knowing these days are fleeting knows no bounds. So I choose to delight in them while I still can. There’s something so beautifully bittersweet about motherhood, isn’t there? The way we find ourselves holding two feelings at once: treasuring this precious season while our hearts long for the next season, while feeling such grief for the seasons with our little ones that have already passed.

I imagine longing to hear “Mommy, watch this!” one more time. Wishing I could find one more drawing tucked into my purse. Desperate to trip over one more monster truck left in the hallway. And so grateful for the honor I had to help form their childhood memories.

Some days it’s so easy to get caught up in the chaos—the endless laundry piles, the crumbs that reappear five minutes after I sweep, the bedtime routine that stretches longer than I can keep my eyes open—that I forget to look up and see what’s actually happening here. That I’m living in the days I’ll someday ache to return to one day. That this is all I’ve ever wanted.

“These Are the Best Days of Your Life”

I think I was visited by an angel the other day. A few weeks ago, I was walking into a store completely flustered. Three kids in tow. Three bags cutting into my arms. My mind spiraling into that familiar place of self-pity and quiet resentment. I was in my head, tallying everything that felt hard, when a woman passed me — beaming with glee. She looked at my children, then at me, and said, “These are the best days of your life.”

I smiled politely. She paused and added, “I’m serious.” And my heart sank. Part conviction. Part immediate repentance. Because I knew she was right. Maybe not literally the best days of my life — but days I will ache to return to. Days I will remember tenderly. Days I will tell stories about. Days I will miss. Chaos included. And so I want all of it – the overwhelm, the mess, the noise – and I want to enjoy it while it’s still mine.

These aren’t the days to merely survive. These are the days to cherish. These are the days we will go back to in our dreams when we are older and steadied by time. So today, we will freeze time for just a few minutes to delight in it all.

The Little Things That Won’t Last Forever

Homemaker and mother in long, floral dress smiles while fixing her daughter's hair. — Screenshot

Yes, things will change. My three-year-old won’t always call yogurt ogurt. She won’t always call her tap dance shoes clap dance shoes. My five-year-old won’t always bring me treasures of twigs and leaves from outside. He won’t always think I can fix an ouchie with a kiss or that I know the answer to every question in the universe. My baby won’t always reach for me the moment I walk into a room or call for me the second he wakes from his slumber. He won’t always smell like that impossible-to-describe sweetness that seems to fade too quickly.

Because what actually remains, what it’s really all about, is this:

It’s finding half-eaten snacks in the strangest places and library books mixed in with the toys.
It’s the bedtime rituals that must be followed exactly—the same stuffed animals arranged just so, the same songs sung in the same order, or sleep simply won’t come.
It’s the daily negotiations over whether pajamas can be worn to the store.
It’s the knock on the bathroom door thirty seconds after you close it, followed by little fingers reaching under the crack.
It’s the “mommy I need to tell you something! It’s an emergency!” right after putting them down for bed and it turns out, the emergency is something wonderfully trivial that couldn’t possibly wait.
It’s the sibling squabbles over who gets to push the cart, sit in the front, or press the button—and then watching them hold hands and laugh at something only they understand.
It’s bandaids on invisible injuries and mommy’s kisses that have genuine healing power for every bump and scrape.
It’s reading the same book night after night and hearing little voices recite the words along with you because they know every page by heart.
It’s the earnest concentration of little helpers trying so hard to do things all by themself, even when it takes three times as long.
It’s a refrigerator door that has turned into an art gallery filled with masterpieces.
It’s the explosion of words and stories every night at dinner, everyone talking over each other to share their day, and catching maybe half of what’s being said but delighting in all of the excitement.
It’s finding tiny handprints on windows and mirrors and not wiping them away because you know the day is coming when there won’t be any new ones.
It’s listening to their hilarious prayers—thanking God for the most random, beautiful things, from their favorite foods to the people they saw that day – knowing God treasures these prayers.
It’s picking up your growing toddler every chance you get because you know that one of these days will be the last time you pick him up.
It’s spontaneous dance parties in the kitchen and requests for the same song over and over again and spinning until everyone’s dizzy and laughing.
It’s the endless questions: “Why is the sky blue?” “Where do stars go in the morning?” “How does God hear everyone at the same time?” “Can we keep this bug forever?”
It’s the chaos of getting out the door—lost shoes, forgotten items, last-minute bathroom trips, the one special toy that absolutely must come along—and then the sweetness of little voices singing in the car.
It’s these moments of overwhelm because you’re going to be late for something, and the silly temptation to rush when the reality is that in 50 years you won’t care that you were late to that thing – just that you didn’t rush through it.
It’s the way they notice every little detail about your appearance because you’re everything to them – you are their person.
It’s the feeling of their sticky little gecko fingers tugging on my hair while nursing.
It’s their complete confidence that you can do anything, fix anything, make anything better and that you are their safe place—and the beautiful weight of wanting to be worthy of that trust.
It’s the memories I’ll have of the sticky fridge handle and the simple familiar memories they’ll carry of the sound of the coffee grinder in the morning, waking up to me making breakfast, the smell of pancakes drifting through the house. These little sensory details will shape their recollection of home, and somehow, they will remember it fondly, because it was a home filled with so much joy.
It’s tucking them in at night, kissing their foreheads, watching them sleep, and feeling your heart so full it might actually burst.

These Days are Fleeting

Christian homemaker sits on a blanket on the floor with her children and reads them a book while they eat snacks off of a tray.

This is your life. This is your calling. This is your ministry. And yes, it’s hard. Some days I’m touched out and talked out and I dream of silence and space and a full night’s sleep. Some days I lose my patience. Some days I still count the minutes until bedtime. But even on those days—God is here.

He’s in the ordinary moments that are actually extraordinary. He’s in the chaos that’s actually a symphony. He’s in the mess that’s actually a masterpiece. He’s with you when you’re racing around the house and it turns out that racing is just a beautiful dance. This season is a gift. A loud, messy, exhausting, beautiful gift. And when we are grey-haired and full of days – we will look back on this time and think how blessed am I that I got to be a mother in this lifetime, as I make my way toward heaven. Don’t wait for the next season to start delighting in this life. Don’t miss the beauty in the chaos. These days are fleeting.

If You’re Drowning Instead of Delighting

If you’re sitting there thinking, Kyrie, this all sounds nice—but I’m drowning. I’m overstimulated. I’m burnt out. Every task feels monumental. I lived there too.

There was a season of motherhood where I wasn’t just tired—I was physically ill. My body was stuck in constant fight-or-flight, and no amount of planners or routines, could fix it. That’s when I realized the problem wasn’t my house, or my children or the fact that I didn’t have the village I expected… It was the way my brain and nervous system were carrying the weight of motherhood and homemaking. What actually changed everything wasn’t one habit or even a handful of home systems. I had to completely change the landscape of my brain—how I processed stress, how I responded to my children, how I dealt with trauma, and how my body experienced daily life.

And that entire process—the exact framework I still use to stay calm, joyful, and full of peace in motherhood—is what I walk you through inside my free workshop, From Survival Mode to Peace-Filled Homemaking in 7 Days.

It’s always such a joy to have you here.