THE SEASONS OF STAYING HOME

Before this life,
before the mornings folded into each other,
before “mom” became my loudest name,
I was working.

For ten years, I worked.
I provided. I survived.
I loved from a distance I never wanted.

I was a single mother then,
learning how to be strong even when it hurt.
I missed firsts I can never get back—
first words spoken without me in the room,
first moments I only heard about later.

I mothered through screens.
Through FaceTime calls and whispered goodnights after bedtime.
Some nights we cried together,
missing each other in different places,
loving each other the same way.

I made sure she always knew this truth:
You are loved. You are special. You always will be.

I never imagined myself staying home.
I was the provider.
The independent one.
The woman who carried it all.

But deep inside,
there was a quiet ache—
a longing to be present,
to be there,
to stop missing life as it happened.

When Love Changed the Direction

Then I met my husband,
and the ground shifted.

I met safety.
I met steadiness.
I met someone who wasn’t afraid to protect,
to provide,
to hold us as a family.

We loved from a distance for a year,
and then I moved to New Jersey—
into a new life,
into a new role,
into staying home.

At first, it felt like a gift I didn’t know how to hold.
Every day felt soft.
I was present.
I was making memories.
I was finally there.

Motherhood humbled me.
Slowed me.
Made my world quieter and fuller all at once.

The Quiet Unraveling

But time has a way of repeating itself.

The days began to blur.
The mornings sounded the same.
The conversations looped.
The routine became heavy.

And slowly,
I started to disappear.

Not all at once—
but quietly.
Gently.
In pieces.

I fell into a sadness I didn’t have words for.
A depression I hid behind smiles and gratitude.
An anxiety that lived in my chest,
unspoken and misunderstood.

I told myself I shouldn’t feel this way.
I told myself I was lucky.
I told myself to be grateful.

And the guilt—
the guilt was louder than everything.

The Beauty I Hold Close

Still, there is so much beauty here.

I have witnessed the moments I once lost.
I have taught all three of my girls
in the ways only a present mother can.

One cleans with pride.
One cooks with joy.
One plays with hair and makeup like it’s magic.

I’ve taught them independence.
Manners.
How to speak gently.
How to grow.

These moments—
these milestones—
exist because of the man who stood behind us,
supporting, sacrificing, providing,
making room for me to stay.

For that,
I am endlessly grateful.

The Truth Beneath the Gratitude

But let me say this honestly—
because someone needs to hear it:

This life is not always soft.
It is not always beautiful.
And it is not always easy.

Being a stay-at-home mom asks you to find yourself
while giving so much of yourself away.

You need something that is yours.
A passion.
A place to breathe.
A way to remember who you were before everyone needed you.

I didn’t have that for a long time.
And I struggled.

How do you love your children deeply
but still want more?
How do you want your own income,
your own purpose,
your own voice—
without feeling guilty for it?

I wanted to help my husband carry the weight.
To contribute.
To feel useful instead of invisible.
And I felt shame for wanting it.

Becoming Again

This life has held both joy and loneliness.
Gratitude and grief.
Blessings and tears.

Eventually, I learned this:
I needed to bloom where I was planted.

My husband built me a farm stand in front of our home.
I grew food with my hands.
I sold produce.
I spoke with neighbors.
I found peace in dirt and sunlight.

I baked.
I cooked.
I learned.
I dreamed again.

It took time.
It took patience.
It took falling apart before feeling whole.

Not because I don’t love this life.
Not because I’m ungrateful.
But because staying home is hard.

To the Mother Reading This

This is my truth—
raw, real, and unfinished.

Some mothers thrive in this season.
Some struggle.
Some stand somewhere in between.

And all of it is valid.

Wherever you are in your journey,
you are not failing.
You are not broken.
And you are not alone.

If this reaches you on a hard day,
let it be a hand on your back,
a quiet reminder—

You are seen.
You are doing your best.
And that is enough. 

With Love, 

Mommy In Bloom