We Both Said Yes

I didn’t grow up close to Mary.
If I’m being honest, for a long time I didn’t really understand her. She always seemed too distant — too perfect, too quiet, too good. I saw the statues of her in blue robes with her hands folded, eyes cast downward, glowing with peace, and I thought: That’s not me.

I wasn’t soft like that.
I was loud. Angry. Broken.
I was pregnant and alone. I was tired and terrified.
And when I did start turning back toward faith, I felt like I had to earn my place at the table. Mary didn’t feel like someone I could talk to. She felt like someone who wouldn’t understand.

But that changed when I became a mother.

It didn’t happen overnight — not in a flash of light or a whispered prayer that changed everything. It happened slowly. Quietly. In the ordinary moments of holding my son when I was too exhausted to think, in the nights I cried over the kind of family I thought I’d have, in the ache of doing it alone and trying to make it feel whole anyway.

I started thinking about her differently.

Because she didn’t get the picture-perfect story either. She said yes to God knowing people would judge her. She carried a child that didn’t make sense to the world. She gave birth in a barn with no safety net, no real plan, no partner who could protect her from what was coming. And still — she said yes.

And so did I.

Not in the same way, but in my own way.
When I found out I was pregnant, I was scared. I was already heartbroken. I knew the man who got me pregnant wouldn’t stay — not really. But I chose my son anyway. I chose to carry him. I chose to love him. I chose to become the mother I didn’t feel ready to be.

I said yes — knowing it would be lonely. Knowing it would break me.
Knowing I’d be judged and whispered about. Knowing it would be heavy.

I said yes because I believed he was meant to be here.
Because God had already planted something sacred inside me.

That’s when Mary stopped feeling distant.
That’s when she started feeling like home.

She knows what it’s like to say yes to something that turns your whole world upside down.
She knows what it’s like to mother in the dark — to walk forward without certainty.
She knows what it’s like to love a child who will suffer.
She knows what it’s like to carry something holy while feeling completely alone.

Now, when I pray, I picture her not as porcelain-perfect — but as tired and strong.
I picture her holding Jesus with dirty hands.
I picture her wiping his face with the edge of her robe.
I picture her weeping when she didn’t understand God’s timing either.

I don’t ask her for miracles. I just talk to her like another mom who gets it.

I tell her I’m scared. I tell her I’m tired.
I ask her to hold me when I can’t hold myself together.
I ask her to pray for me, not because I’m perfect — but because I’m willing. Because I said yes, and I’m still saying it.

Every morning I wake up and choose to mother when I feel empty.
Every time I forgive someone who never apologized.
Every time I let go of what I thought my life would look like.
Every time I believe again, even when it’s shaky.

That’s my yes.

That’s how I stay close to Mary.
Not because I’m holy, but because I understand what it means to choose a path that hurts and heals at the same time.

We both said yes.
And that’s enough to make me feel seen.