Two days from now, my daughter will walk down the aisle. She’s my second eldest, and she’s been with her guy for years, long enough that they’ve weathered many of the cracks and currents that either make or break a couple.
I’m happy for her, really, deeply happy. It’s not every day you get to watch your child step into a life they’ve been quietly building all along.
Weddings are funny that way.
They’re a ceremony, but the marriage has usually been happening in the small, unnoticed moments long before anyone says “I do.”
All my kids will be together this weekend. That sentence alone is enough to make my heart swell and my schedule tighten. This week I’ve been running through the list: hair appointments, dresses, last-minute errands, the silent hope that no one forgets shoes or underwear. It will be loud, chaotic, and beautiful. It always is when all my children are under one roof, like the earth shifting slightly to make room for that much love and noise.
Meanwhile, because life doesn’t care that a wedding is coming, I’m in the middle of finalizing another book. Actually, I should say another three books. Three books have been published in the last 45 days. On paper, that looks like I’ve been locked in some fever dream of productivity, hammering out words with the determination of a caffeine-fueled novelist.
In truth, these books have been simmering for years. Drafts, rewrites, notes scribbled in the margins of grocery lists, ideas tucked into the back of my mind while making dinner. Years of work quietly waiting, until God, in His perfect timing, swung the doors wide and said, Now.
And so, they all tumbled out together, each with their rightful cover, each finally breathing in the light of day. I’m proud, the kind of proud that lives deep in the ribcage. The reviews have started coming in, and they’re good.
Better than good.
People are connecting, which is why I write in the first place. It feels like everything has aligned…
books, weddings, new beginnings.
Except, of course, there’s also flooring.
Craig and I are still in the midst of working on our new home, DIY style, which sounds romantic until you realize it’s mostly a game of “which tool works best for this or that?” and “how many more days will it actually take to feel like we are on the other side, the downhill?” We’re balancing flooring decisions with what best works to lift up old grout and glue and the small, stubborn details that can make a grown woman cry in the middle of Home Depot. Every day seems to blur past at twice the speed, as though someone quietly stole a few hours out of the clock.
On top of that, our old house needs to be kept spotless. Ready for a showing at any moment. Strangers coming through, looking for flaws we’ve stopped seeing. I sweep, wipe, and fluff pillows like I’m in a permanent open-house loop. The absurdity isn’t lost on me: somewhere between wedding prep, book launches, and flooring samples, I’ve also become a part-time maid in a house I’m trying to leave.
My youngest two just started back to school. That means the mornings are a race, evenings are all about making sure papers are signed, first week last minuet teacher requests are taken care off and somewhere in between, I try to remember which child likes apples best in their lunch and which one has decided they’re exploring something new and daring in the food department. Add to this the usual layers; car trouble, big conversations that stretch late into the night, hormone shifts that have me wondering if I’m secretly turning into a werewolf and the everyday, inescapable chores of adult life.
Clients to tend to.
Groceries to buy.
Legs to shave.
Nails to get done before the wedding so I don’t look like a woman who’s been digging her way out of the flooring department.
This morning, I told Craig I’d lost my “give-a-shit” button. I don’t know when it fell off or where it rolled to. Maybe under the fridge. Maybe into the space between “to-do” and “never-going-to-happen.” When I find it, maybe I’ll also find my missing brain cells, the ones that used to remember appointments, grocery lists, and why I walked into the kitchen in the first place or to water my plants.
The truth is, I’m tired. Not the kind of tired a good night’s sleep will fix, but the kind that comes from running every lane at once. It’s a fullness and an exhaustion at the same time. A blessing and a burn-out. I wouldn’t trade any of it. Not the wedding, not the books, not even the endless floor samples, but there’s a cost to moving this fast through life. Some days, I wonder if we all mistake speed for success, motion for meaning.
Hemingway said, “Write hard and clear about what hurts.”
Right now, what hurts isn’t a sharp pain.
It’s the soft, dull ache of carrying too much beauty, too much chaos, too much life all at once.
My daughter in white.
My books in the world.
My hands in the dirt of a new home.
My kids laughing together.
My tired legs.
My chipped nails.
My unshaven patience.
And maybe that’s the point. Maybe the missing button is a mercy. Maybe God hid it, so I’d stop trying to give a damn about the things that don’t matter. The spotless counters, the perfect hair, the illusion of control. Maybe the lesson is to let the dishes sit in the sink while I watch my daughter dance with her new husband. Maybe it’s to trust that the right people will rent our house, the right floors will get laid, the right words will keep flowing.
This weekend, I will stand in a room full of everyone I love. I’ll watch my child make vows, and I’ll think of all the nights I held her fevered head, all the mornings I packed her lunch, all the teenage tears we survived. I’ll watch her walk into her own life, and I’ll feel the weight of mine. Not as a burden, but as a tapestry. Messy, beautiful, unfinished, and entirely mine.
And when the music starts, I’ll dance. Floors be damned.
As always loving you from here,
- This picture is a few years old now but will always remain one of my many favorites.
- Musing was written a on Friday. Better late than never 🙂
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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Photo credit: Rene’ Schooler(Author)
