Mothering with Grace When All You Want to Do Is Scream, Cry, or Cling

What do you do when your kids break your heart a little, and you still have to keep showing up?

Oh hi there. Welcome.
Pull up a chair, grab your tea (or the cold coffee you forgot about), and settle in. This one’s a little raw, a little tender, and a whole lot of honest.

Some days, I feel like my heart is just one big bruise with a heartbeat.
Not because I don’t love my kids — of course I do. Fiercely, endlessly.
But because that love comes with stretch marks you can’t see, the kind that live in your spirit.
The kind that ache quietly, when your teen lies to your face, or your twenty-something disappears for days, or your five-year-old stomps away from you with all the drama of a tiny thundercloud.

I’ve spent the past two decades mothering across a shifting landscape:

One son who still believes I hung the moon… unless he’s mad at me, then I’m the worst.
One deep in the teen years, testing limits, dodging truth, and figuring out where I end and he begins.
One grown, mostly, and finding his way — which sometimes means forgetting that I still ache when the silence stretches too long.

And let me tell you: it’s hard to mother with grace when your trust is cracked, your patience is paper-thin, and your arms are reaching for a child who isn’t reaching back.

When your teen lies, it doesn’t just hurt — it shatters.
It chips away at your trust, and suddenly every word feels suspicious. You start second-guessing what’s true, what’s real, what’s left.
You wonder if you missed something.
You wonder if they care.
You wonder how to stay close without being a doormat, how to be wise without building a wall.

When your grown child goes quiet, it’s its own kind of grief.
They’re not doing anything wrong — they’re just living their life. But it still stings when your calls go unanswered, your check-ins get the dreaded “Seen” but not replied to.
You want to be supportive, not suffocating.
You want to trust the space — but sometimes it just feels like absence.

And when your five-year-old stomps away, it shouldn’t undo you…
But some days it does.
Because he still fits on your lap, but the first cracks of independence are showing.
Because it’s your last little one.
Because even a slammed door from a tiny body can echo through the whole day.

So how do you mother with grace in that?

When your heart wants to scream, cry, or just grab them and not let go?

You breathe.
You bite your tongue.
You cry (in the laundry room, in the car, in prayer, in the dark).
You hold space.
You let yourself feel it — the disappointment, the fear, the ache.
And then, somehow, you show up again the next morning.

With waffles.
Or a ride to school.
Or a “Just checking in” text.
Or a hug that says I’m still here, even when I’m hurt.

Grace in motherhood isn’t soft music and calm voices.
Sometimes it’s silence.
Sometimes it’s space.
Sometimes it’s not saying the thing you want to say, even though your whole chest is screaming for it to come out.

Grace is choosing connection over control.
It’s trusting that your child’s story is still being written.
It’s knowing that even when they push you away, they still need you — your steadiness, your love, your ridiculously stubborn faith in who they are becoming.

You won’t get it right every time.
You’ll yell.
You’ll cry.
You’ll say something and wish you could rewind it.
Me too.

But if you’re still trying… still showing up… still loving in the hard moments?
That is grace.

That’s the kind of motherhood that changes lives — not the Pinterest-perfect kind, but the kind that sticks through the silence, and keeps the door cracked open, and leaves the light on.

So to the mama who feels like she’s failing — you’re not.
To the one who’s tired of trusting and tired of waiting — you’re not alone.
To the one who wants to wrap her child in her arms and not let go — your love is not wasted.

You’re doing the holy, gritty, sacred work of mothering with grace.

And that is more than enough.

With all my love,
J

Have you ever had to mother through silence, lies, distance, or defiance? What helps you stay grounded in the messy middle? I’d love to hear your heart, even if it’s just, “Same, friend. Me too.”