I honestly wasn’t sure I would make it to meet my son.

It was the end of March in Minnesota, which meant we were stuck in this in-between — close to warmer days but still absolutely frigid. Slushy streets, overnight freezing. Misleading sunshine with wind chills still in the single digits.

In a lot of ways, waiting for my son to come was like waiting for the seasons to change. Days upon days, I felt like I was losing my mind, wondering if spring would ever come.

Then, on a Monday well after his “due date,” he started to make his way into the world. Not unlike his older sister, he was born in the dead of night, darkness coating the entire experience. It started out peaceful, quiet, and serene . . . but quickly turned into a nightmare. In fact, that’s exactly what I remember incessantly repeating: This is my nightmare. This is my nightmare.

Let me explain.

In 2019, I confidently went into labor with my first-born. I felt strong. I knew I had what it would take to “make it happen,” mustering up the energy and resolve to blaze through delivering our daughter — even in utter exhaustion. This experience ran parallel to an overall theme of over-functioning in my life, where I would often push through and make things happen . . . even at a detriment to my own body and mental health.

By the time I went into labor with our son, a couple of years later, I felt like a completely different person. The year 2020 changed me. (Let’s get real — it changed all of us). For me, this change brought a lot of healing into my life, learning to slow down and be more gentle with myself. I went into labor this time softer. I was able to stay grounded and connected in my body and soul, as well as know the safety and care I had in the team surrounding me.

About halfway through, though, and well into pushing, something stalled. As it turned out, my anterior cervical lip was stuck. Basically, my baby was low enough to trigger my body to push him out though my cervix wasn’t ready. I went from thinking my baby would be in my arms, in mere minutes, to laboring with no end in sight. I cannot adequately explain how excruciatingly painful those next few hours were . . . both physically and mentally.

“You’re going to need to power through,” said my midwife.

It felt like, once again, I was thrown back into that “survival mode” mindset of trying harder. Pushing through. Making it happen. How defeating it was to be stuck on that familiar path. Even more so, I was reeling emotionally. I wondered, Why is this happening to me? Why does it have to be so hard? With what little capacity I had to even think between contractions, I wondered what would have happened if this was happening to someone else, someone who didn’t seem like they’d be strong or capable enough to handle it. 

To be honest, in that moment, I didn’t want to be strong anymore.

I wrestled with God, on my hands and knees, angry that it couldn’t be easier for me. I felt lost, alone, disoriented, and all-too-responsible for the task at hand. I wanted to give up. I wanted to give in to the despair and disappointment, believing I would always be stuck in the tension of difficult and demanding circumstances.

Ultimately, I did deliver a healthy, albeit massive, boy. And, though my body was able to release a baby, my heart could not release the questions I carried or the emotions I felt. What followed were months of postpartum complications, emblematic of a whole life lived in tension. From appointments to specialists to testing and retraining my body, the results all concluded the same diagnosis: I Cannot Relax.

I had to, and still have to, learn to rest. To be cared for and carried just as much, if not more, as what I think is expected of me.

Author and therapist Aundi Kolber says, “Strength does not mean only surviving, but also receiving — having places you feel safe, where you can rest, where you can feel cared for.”

That familiar pathway of holding it together can actually expand into a freeway, journeying alongside others that care for me and carry me when I can’t make it. Where there are resources and help along the way. Where I can learn the “unforced rhythms of grace” that Jesus invites us into. Where the way to the destination is less of a crash and burn and more of a stream in the desert. Where I can relax into the love of my Maker, the Sustainer of my soul.

I don’t have to be strong all the time. It’s like what I tell my kids every night when I tuck them in. “You can rest. You can relax. I’m right here,” I tell them.

I believe God tells us the same.

Listen to today’s devotion below or wherever you stream podcasts!

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