The Rocking Chair

The other night, I was rocking my sweet little granddaughter Winifred in our rocking chair when I suddenly drifted back 36 years, to another baby and another rocking chair.

I think I became a mother in that rocking chair.

As long as I can remember, I knew I wanted to be a mother, which is somewhat surprising considering the example I had. My own mother was often angry and cruel, and when I was eight, she left, leaving behind a sad and confused little girl.

When I found out I was pregnant with Joshua, I was happy and excited. But as my due date drew closer, excitement began sharing space with fear. How did I know what kind of mother I would be? Would I somehow follow my own mother’s path and create a child who felt scared and unloved?

Joshua’s birth was tough, but he was the most beautiful baby I had ever seen. I loved him instantly. Still, that nagging fear didn’t completely disappear.

And then he turned out to be a colicky baby.

Most evenings were spent with Rich and me taking turns holding a screaming baby until he finally fell asleep. Soon after we arrived at Fort Bragg, when Joshua was a little over a month old, we bought a secondhand rocking chair. After that, I spent countless evenings in that chair, rocking him to sleep.

When Joshua was five months old, Rich was deployed for Operation Desert Shield. Suddenly, Joshua and I were on our own for the next seven months.

Those early days were filled with fear for Rich and plenty of uncertainty about whether I could handle everything on my own. But night after night, Joshua and I fell into a routine. The colic eventually disappeared. And somewhere along the way, something in me changed.

I realized I could do this.

I might not be a perfect mother, but I loved that sweet little baby desperately. Joshua and I were a team. In a lot of ways, I think we grew up together.

I rocked him to sleep almost every night until he was about nine months old. Then, for some reason I no longer remember, I decided it was probably time for him to learn to fall asleep on his own. I mentally prepared myself for crying and a long struggle.

Instead, I laid him down, and he went right to sleep.

Of course he did.

I walked back into the living room and sat down in that rocking chair by myself. As I rocked, with my beautiful baby boy sleeping peacefully in the next room, I remember realizing something.

I was a mother.

And I was a pretty good one at that.

Almost four years later, Courtney came along. I was a different mother by then—not because I had everything figured out, but because I trusted myself in a way I hadn’t when Joshua was born. That fear that I was somehow destined to become the kind of mother I had known had faded.

Was I a perfect mother? God, no.

I made mistakes. I’m sure there are things both of my children could tell you they wish I had done differently. But there is one thing I believe with my whole heart: Joshua and Courtney have always known how deeply they are loved.

And maybe that was what the scared little eight-year-old inside me had wanted all along.

So, 36 years later, there I was in another rocking chair, this time holding Joshua’s baby girl.

As I sat there rocking Winny, I thought about that scared 22-year-old in the secondhand rocking chair. Back then, when I was in the thick of it and trying so hard to be the mother my baby needed, I don’t remember ever looking ahead to a moment like this.

I wish I could tell that young mother that she was going to be okay.

That she wasn’t destined to repeat the past.

That the little boy sleeping in the next room would grow up knowing exactly how much he was loved. That another beautiful baby would come along a few years later and teach her even more about being a mother. And that 36 years later, she would hold her son’s baby girl in her arms and realize just how far they had all come.

I became a mother in that first rocking chair.

But sitting there rocking Winny all these years later, I think I finally understood just how much becoming Joshua’s mother—and later Courtney’s—had changed me, too.

A Little Grace Goes A Long Way

For most of my life, grace was something you said before dinner.

Then, during a difficult season of my life, a dear friend used the word in a completely different way. As she listened to me talk through my frustrations, disappointments, and mistakes, she gently reminded me to give myself some grace.

At the time, I don’t think I fully understood what she meant.

Like many people, I had become very good at holding myself to impossibly high standards. I expected myself to get everything right, say the right thing, make the right decisions, and somehow never fall short. When I did make a mistake, I replayed it over and over in my mind, often showing myself far less compassion than I would ever show someone else.

It took me years to truly understand what my friend was trying to teach me.

The older I get, the more I realize that grace is not about excusing our mistakes or avoiding responsibility. It’s about recognizing that we are human. We are going to stumble. We are going to make poor choices, say the wrong thing, misunderstand someone, or simply fall short of our own expectations from time to time.

And that’s okay.

When a friend is struggling, most of us naturally offer kindness, understanding, and encouragement. We remind them that one mistake doesn’t define them. We tell them they’re doing the best they can. Yet so often, we refuse to offer ourselves that same compassion.

What if we did?

What if, instead of immediately criticizing ourselves, we paused and extended the same kindness inward? What if we acknowledged our imperfections without letting them become our identity?

I’ve found that life feels a little lighter when I do.

Giving ourselves grace doesn’t make us weaker or less accountable. It gives us room to learn, grow, and move forward. It softens the sharp edges of perfectionism and reminds us that our worth isn’t tied to flawless performance.

These days, I find myself using that word more and more—not just for myself, but when talking with others who are struggling. Maybe that’s because I finally understand what my friend was trying to tell me all those years ago.

Sometimes the most powerful thing we can do is simply offer ourselves a little grace.

When Grief Shows Up

Grief is a funny thing. It can hit you at the strangest times.

Just today, I had finished my run and sat down to stretch when a wave of overwhelming sadness came over me. Like most people, I’ve experienced moments like this off and on for as long as I can remember. Sometimes these waves are tied to childhood, other times to more recent losses.

There was a time when I used to fight these moments. I didn’t want to feel them. But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve come to understand that it’s important to embrace grief when it shows up.

Sometimes it’s the loss of someone I’ve loved that rises to the surface. I think of my grandmother, Mary, who I lost when I was six years old. I loved her deeply, and I know she loved me just as much. Other times, it’s dear friends—Joanna, Rachel, Catherine—whose absence I feel.

And sometimes, the grief is more abstract. It’s the loss of a relationship I never really had, like the one with my own mother, who chose to leave when I was just eight years old. Other times, it’s grief for something I thought might be part of my life, but never came to be.

Whatever form it takes, I’ve learned to let the grief come. I try to ride the wave instead of resisting it. There are usually tears. But eventually, when I’m thinking about the people I’ve lost, the memories begin to soften the edges, and sometimes even bring a smile.

Not all grief transforms that way. Some losses—like the relationship with my mother—still sit heavy.

Not all grief turns into something soft or beautiful. Some of it stays heavy. Some of it still hurts in ways that time hasn’t fixed—and maybe never will.

And I’m no longer trying to fix it.

Because grief isn’t a problem to solve. It’s a reflection of love, of longing, of what mattered—and still matters.

It’s part of me now. Not something I carry reluctantly, but something I’ve made space for.

Because every loss, every absence, every “what could have been” has shaped the way I see the world, the way I love the people who are still here, and the way I show up for myself.

Grief didn’t just break me open.

It changed me.

And at some point, I stopped resisting that—and started honoring it.