The First Day, the In-Between, and the God Who Provides

There are days that look ordinary to everyone else, but feel like a holy threshold to you. Today was one of those days.

My son’s first day of preschool.

A tiny backpack that seemed too big for his shoulders. New shoes. New routines. New little faces that will become familiar. A new room that will shape him in ways I can’t even measure yet. He was brave in that calm, childlike way that makes you proud and undone at the same time. He walked in like he belonged there, like he trusted the world. Like he trusted me.

And I stood there with my chest tight, smiling like I had it all together, while my heart was doing that thing it does when a milestone arrives and you realize, again, that this wasn’t the version of the story you expected.

When I was pregnant, I never thought I’d be a single mom. I never pictured doing these big steps alone. I never pictured being the one to carry every decision, every bill, every detail, every “what’s next,” every “how are we going to do this,” while still trying to keep my son’s world soft and safe.

But here we are.

And today, I’m proud. I’m also sad. I’m also grateful. I’m also scared. I’m also hopeful. All at once. And I’m learning that holding multiple truths at the same time isn’t a sign that I’m unstable. It’s a sign I’m human. It’s a sign I loved the life I thought I’d have, and I also love the life I’m fighting to build.

I’m budgeting for preschool now, because I’m the only one paying for it, along with everything else. Child support helps, but it only goes so far in today’s economy. Groceries don’t care about your feelings. Gas doesn’t care about your prayers. Rent doesn’t pause because you’re doing your best. The numbers are loud, and sometimes they feel like they’re always daring me to fall behind.

My son and I still live with my parents.

Some days that feels like provision. Other days it feels like a reminder that I’m still in the middle of the rebuilding. Like I’m living in the “not yet.” Not yet the home I want. Not yet the stability I’m working toward. Not yet the life I dreamed of when I imagined motherhood.

And the truth is, I’ve had moments where getting our own home feels further and further away. Like the finish line keeps moving. Like every time I take a step forward, something gets more expensive, or another need pops up, or the budget stretches thin again.

But here is what I can’t ignore: my son needs this. He needs structure and learning and friendships and a bigger world than what I can provide alone inside these walls. He needs a chance to grow. And he deserves it.

So I’m choosing it.

Even if it means I have to tighten everything else. Even if it means the dream of our own home takes longer. Even if it means I have to be more disciplined, more creative, more prayerful, more persistent than I ever planned to be.

Because motherhood has taught me something I didn’t know before: love will make you brave.

And faith will keep you moving when you’re tired.

I keep thinking about how many times I’ve asked God for “a breakthrough,” when what He’s been giving me is a backbone. A holy kind of endurance. The kind you don’t post about because it’s not glamorous, it’s just daily. Packing snacks. Washing cups. Stretching meals. Returning emails. Paying bills. Keeping routines. Choosing peace. Holding your child close and still letting them grow.

I used to think faith was mostly about big miracles. And it is, sometimes. But more often, in this season, faith looks like showing up again tomorrow and believing God is still good even when I don’t feel caught up.

It looks like whispering prayers in the car before drop-off.

It looks like letting my child step into a classroom while I fight the urge to pull him back into the safety of my arms, because I know love isn’t only holding on. Love is also letting go at the right moments.

It looks like being honest with God about the ache. About the grief of the life I thought I’d have. About the loneliness that can hit in the quiet moments when you realize there’s no one beside you to say, “You did good today.”

And it looks like hearing God answer in the ways He often does: not with a loud voice, but with a steady presence.

I’m learning that God doesn’t only meet us at finish lines. He meets us in hallways. In waiting rooms. In the in-between. In the seasons where you’re not falling apart anymore, but you’re not fully rebuilt yet either.

He meets you in the middle.

The Bible says, “God is within her, she will not fall.” (Psalm 46:5, KJV)
And today, I held onto that like a railing.

Because it would be easy to tell myself that because I’m not where I want to be yet, I’m failing. It would be easy to believe that living with my parents means I’m behind. It would be easy to let shame define this season.

But shame is not from God. Shame is a liar that tries to make survival feel like sin.

Provision looks different in different seasons. Sometimes provision is your own home. Sometimes provision is a safe place to land while you rebuild. Sometimes provision is a mother and father who open their doors so you can regroup. Sometimes provision is the ability to pay for preschool even when it squeezes you. Sometimes provision is strength for the day in front of you, not the whole five-year plan.

I think about Hagar, the single mother in the wilderness, when she thought she had nothing left. And Scripture says God saw her. She named Him “the God who sees me.” (Genesis 16:13) That story has held my hand in this season. Because single motherhood can feel like being unseen. Like you’re doing the most and nobody notices. Like you’re carrying a thousand small sacrifices and the world just keeps spinning.

But God sees.

He sees the money math that keeps you up at night. He sees the ache you swallow so your child can feel safe. He sees the courage it takes to keep choosing “what’s best” when “what’s best” costs you.

And He is not asking you to pretend it doesn’t hurt. He is asking you to keep walking with Him through it.

“Cast thy burden upon the Lord, and he shall sustain thee.” (Psalm 55:22, KJV)
Sustain. Not just “help a little.” Sustain. Hold you up. Keep you going. Feed you with strength you didn’t have five minutes ago.

I’ve been praying differently lately. Less polished. More real. More like a daughter collapsing into her Father’s arms.

God, I’m doing this alone.
God, I’m scared about money.
God, I don’t want my child to feel the lack.
God, please make a way.
God, please give me wisdom.
God, please keep my heart soft.
God, please keep us safe.
God, please build our future even if I can’t see it yet.

And slowly, gently, I’ve felt Him answer with the kind of peace that doesn’t deny reality. It just refuses to let reality be the only voice in the room.

“Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.” (Proverbs 3:5, KJV)
That verse has followed me for years, but it feels different now. Because leaning on my own understanding looks like panic. It looks like spiraling. It looks like trying to control the timeline so I can finally feel secure. But trust looks like obeying the next step. Paying for preschool. Showing up. Doing the budget. Asking for help when I need it. Keeping my child’s world steady.

Trust looks like being faithful with what’s in my hands today, while I believe God is still writing the rest.

And can I say something that might be unpopular? I don’t think it’s weak to need help. I don’t think it’s shameful to live with your parents while you rebuild. I don’t think it’s “less than” to be in a season that’s slower than you wanted.

I think it’s wise to choose stability when you’re responsible for a little life.

I think it’s strong to keep going even when you’re disappointed.

I think it’s holy to keep choosing love.

Because here’s what I know: my son is watching.

Not watching my bank balance. Not watching whether we have the perfect house yet. Not watching whether my life turned out the way I planned.

He’s watching whether I’m steady. Whether I’m kind. Whether I’m present. Whether I’m safe. Whether I keep my promises. Whether I show up. Whether I speak to myself with grace. Whether I let God into our home, even if the home is currently someone else’s roof.

And today, when I watched him take that step into preschool, I realized something tender and true:

This milestone wasn’t only his.

It was mine too.

Because I’m learning how to release him into good things. I’m learning how to trust God with the parts I can’t control. I’m learning how to do hard things with a soft heart. I’m learning how to become the kind of mother who doesn’t just survive. The kind who builds.

And maybe that’s what this season is: building.

Not all at once. Not perfectly. But faithfully.

Line by line. Prayer by prayer. Budget by budget. Day by day.

“And let us not be weary in well doing: for in due season we shall reap, if we faint not.” (Galatians 6:9, KJV)
Due season. Not immediate season. Not “tomorrow will fix everything” season. Due season. The appointed time. The right time. The time God knows how to bring.

So I’m going to keep sowing.

I’m going to keep choosing what’s best for my son.
I’m going to keep being faithful with what we have.
I’m going to keep asking God for wisdom and strength and provision.
I’m going to keep letting this season shape me without hardening me.
I’m going to keep believing that my “not yet” is not a “never.”

We may not have our own home yet.

But we have safety. We have family. We have love. We have routines. We have a little boy growing into himself. We have a God who sees us, sustains us, and makes a way.

And today, that is enough.