On the Days I Don't Feel Holy

This morning, I woke up to a tiny foot pressed into my rib cage and a hand tangled in my hair. My two-year-old was fast asleep, soft snores and all, completely unaware that he had taken over most of the bed.

It’s like that every night. We co-sleep, and while I wouldn’t trade the closeness for anything, the truth is: I haven’t really slept through the night in over two years. Most mornings, I wake up already touched out, overstimulated, and praying for a slow start that never comes.

He opens his eyes and immediately starts talking. I love that about him — the way his mind works, how animated and curious he is. But I’m not always ready for the demands, the questions, the needs. Some mornings I’m still in that half-asleep space where I’m grieving the version of myself that didn’t have to be everything for someone else. And then I feel guilty for even thinking that.

Because I love him. I do. He’s the best part of my life. But I also feel like I lose pieces of myself in the constantness of it all — in the diaper changes, the snack negotiations, the repeats of the same cartoon, the days that blur into each other with no real end and no real break.

It doesn’t feel holy.

I used to think being a faithful woman meant being peaceful, composed, consistent. I thought it meant getting up before your kid and reading your Bible at the kitchen table with a warm cup of coffee and a grateful heart. Instead, I get up with a foot in my side, shuffle to the kitchen, reheat my coffee three times, and whisper prayers like “Please help me not yell today” or “God, I’m so tired. Please just meet me here.”

I don’t have a quiet time. I have a cartoon playing in the background while I’m wiping peanut butter off the floor and trying to remember the last time I felt like myself.

And yet… somehow, God still shows up.

Not in the ways I was told He would — not through perfect routines or deep theological insight — but in the tiny moments I didn’t even realize were sacred. Like when my son wraps his arms around me and says, “You’re my mama. You’re my best friend.” Or when I take a deep breath instead of reacting in frustration. Or when I let myself cry on the bathroom floor and remember that I don’t have to carry it all alone.

I don’t feel holy when I’m worn thin, when I don’t get the laundry done, when I don’t pray before meals or forget to say thank you to God for the day. I feel guilty. I feel scattered. I feel behind.

But I’m learning that holiness isn’t something I earn by doing everything right. It’s something I receive because I’m willing to stay in it — to stay in the story, to keep loving, to keep trying, even when I’m falling apart.

I think about Mary a lot. Not the picture-perfect version we see in statues, but the real, exhausted teenage girl who said yes to God and then gave birth in a barn. Who raised a son while likely feeling confused, afraid, and incredibly human. I wonder if she ever looked around at the mess and thought, This is what obedience looks like? This is what holiness feels like?

Because I do. I look around at my life — the one I didn’t think I’d be living, the one I fought so hard to keep together — and I wonder if I’m doing it right. I wonder if I’m enough. I wonder if I’m seen.

And the only answer I ever get is this: I’m still here. And maybe that’s enough.

Maybe holiness isn’t about feeling close to God — maybe it’s about staying even when you don’t. Maybe it’s in the apology after losing your patience. Maybe it’s in folding the same tiny clothes again and again while whispering thank You through tired lips. Maybe it’s in showing up for your child even when your heart feels like it’s breaking in places no one can see.

I don’t always feel holy. But I keep loving. I keep choosing softness. I keep trying again.
And I think that counts.

I think God meets us there — in the middle of motherhood, in the mess and the mundane, in the days where we give more than we have and somehow still find enough to kiss them goodnight.

So no, I didn’t wake up feeling holy.
I woke up tired, overwhelmed, and covered in a tangle of toddler limbs.
But I woke up.
And I stayed.
And that’s something sacred too.