Learning to Receive What’s Good

The road that brought us here hasn’t been an easy one.

There have been moments where God’s goodness felt close and obvious—and long stretches where it felt distant, muted by grief, uncertainty, and exhaustion. Some of those valleys were visible: infertility, disrupted adoption plans, postpartum depression. Others were quieter, carried with trusted friends and family.

What I’m realizing now is that none of that disappeared overnight. But something did begin to change.

Earlier this year, I reached a point where I could no longer ignore the cost of neglecting my own care. I wasn’t comfortable in my body, and that discomfort was bleeding into every other part of my life. I didn’t make dramatic resolutions. I made small, steady choices—ones that aligned with how I actually wanted to feel.

Over time, something shifted. Not just physically, but internally. I felt more present. More capable. More grounded. The change mattered not because of what it produced, but because of how it restored my sense of agency.

That posture carried into the months that followed.

Instead of bracing for what might go wrong, I practiced receiving what was good. Enjoying what was in front of me. Letting joy exist without immediately waiting for the other shoe to drop.

That was harder than it sounds.

When we began to talk about growing our family again, fear resurfaced quickly. I had been bracing myself for months leading up to that conversation. We were clear about one thing: we would not pursue fertility treatments again. Even allowing myself to want another child felt risky—like reopening a wound I had worked hard to protect. Hope had proven costly before.

I expected the waiting.
I expected the uncertainty.
I expected the familiar ache of disappointment.

And then it didn’t happen that way.

We became pregnant the very first month we tried.

I hold that reality with open hands. I know it’s not something to explain or replicate. It had nothing to do with what we did or didn’t do—and everything to do with God’s kindness to us in this season.

Even then, my instinct was to brace. To assume something might still go wrong. To hold joy at arm’s length.

So the work for me wasn’t celebrating a result—it was staying present. Letting myself receive what was unfolding without immediately preparing for grief. Choosing gratitude without demanding guarantees.

This is what I mean when I say here.

Here is not a finish line.
Here is not a reward.
Here is finding myself pregnant with our third—and last—child after years of loss, fear, and restraint.

It’s a moment of gentleness after a long stretch of strain.
And I don’t mistake it for anything more than that.

At the same time, I became honest about other areas where I felt unseen or unsupported. I stopped assuming endurance was the highest virtue. I asked questions. I searched. I advocated for myself instead of absorbing quiet dissatisfaction as normal.

What I see now, looking back, is that this wasn’t one decision. It was a series of small acts of attention—physical, emotional, spiritual—that kept me from drifting into another season of depletion.

For a long time, I believed care for myself was something I could postpone. Something optional. Something secondary to serving others well.

I don’t believe that anymore.

Paying attention to my own well-being wasn’t a rejection of faith. It was an expression of it. A recognition that I am not separate from the life God is forming—I am part of it.

I don’t say this as a formula or a promise. I know better than that. I say it as a testimony of integration: when I stopped ignoring my own needs, I found God already there.

Not demanding.
Not withholding.
But steady—inviting me to live more fully awake.