"You're such a Supermom!"
I've heard those words more times than I can count.
Usually they're followed by, "I could never do what you do," or, "I don't know how you do it."
It's always meant as a compliment, and I genuinely appreciate the kindness behind it. But every time someone says it, I can't help but smile to myself.
Because if they had seen me thirty minutes earlier, they probably would have chosen a different superhero.
Thirty minutes earlier, I was searching the house for a missing shoe while someone cried because their toast had crumbs on it. One child needed help with something they were building. Another was trying to tell me their bizarre dream while someone else interrupted every three seconds. The dog was barking like it was her full time job. Someone wanted another snack. Dinner hadn't even crossed my mind yet, and I had already answered the same question four times.
There have been countless moments when I've escaped to the bathroom—not because I actually needed the bathroom, but because I needed forty-five uninterrupted seconds to remember who I was.
Supermom?
Not exactly.
The truth is, I understand why people say it. From the outside, they see eight kids. They see fostering and adoption. They see autism, ADHD, homeschooling, appointments, therapies, sports, church, meals, laundry, and all the moving pieces that make up our life.
What they don't see are the prayers.
They don't hear the whispered, "Lord...help me," before I walk into a hard conversation with one of my kids.
They don't see the moments after I've lost my patience when I ask God to help me apologize well.
They don't know how often I pray for wisdom because I genuinely don't know what the right answer is.
Or how many nights I've climbed into bed replaying the day, wondering if I loved everyone well enough.
For a long time, I thought the goal of motherhood was to become the woman who could handle it all.
The patient mom.
The organized mom.
The one who always knew exactly what each child needed, never forgot appointments, packed healthy lunches, kept the house under control, and somehow had enough emotional energy left at the end of the day to be fully present with her husband.
I chased that version of motherhood for years.
The problem is...
I don't think she exists.
At least, not here.
Not in my house.
And maybe she was never supposed to.
Because if I really could do all of this on my own, would I ever stop long enough to ask God for help?
Would I whisper prayers while stirring spaghetti sauce?
Would I recognize my need for Him if I always felt strong enough on my own?
Probably not.
Maybe that's the myth of Supermom.
Not that she isn't trying hard enough.
But that she was never meant to exist in the first place.
Maybe God never designed motherhood to be carried by one person's strength. Maybe He designed it to be lived one day at a time, completely dependent on Him.
Ironically, the moments that make me feel the least capable are often the moments that draw me closest to Christ.
I've stopped seeing that as failure.
I've started seeing it as grace.
Not because the hard parts of motherhood are good.
But because they continually remind me where my strength actually comes from.
So if you've ever looked at another mom and thought, She's got this all figured out, let me gently let you in on a secret.
She probably doesn't.
I know I don't.
What I do have is a God who has never once expected me to be enough.
Instead, He faithfully meets me in all the places where I'm not.
And maybe that's one of the deepest glimmers of grace I've found in motherhood.
Not that God made me Supermom.
But that He never asked me to be.
🌿 Look for the Glimmers
This week, where have you been trying to be enough?
What would change if, instead of striving to carry it all, you simply invited God into the places where you already know you can't?
Maybe the glimmer isn't that you've become stronger.
Maybe it's that you've discovered you don't have to be.