Before my maternity leave ended with Jack, I tried to put into words what those months at home as a family of four meant to me. I posted something on Instagram—part reflection, part poem—about sifting through the mess and laundry to find the gold. About how their innocence breaks your heart and heals it at the same time. About the desperate grappling for who you were, only to discover that they make you whole.
I’ve thought about that post a lot since then, especially as both kids get bigger and the days feel simultaneously longer and shorter. And I’ve learned that embracing the beauty of motherhood means letting this love be exactly as overwhelming and transformative as it actually is. These are the 5 truths I keep coming back to (and maybe you do too).
1. This love started with longing (and that makes it sweeter).
I remember the gnawing wonder of whether it would happen for me. And I remember being sure I couldn’t do it. Josh and I tried for nearly two years before getting pregnant with Reese. I’d scroll through friends’ pregnancy announcements, go to their baby showers, and feel that particular ache every month.
Now, when Reese pats my face at 5:30 a.m. with her whispered, “Mommy, are you awake?” I think about that version of me who would have given anything for these early morning wake-ups. Desperately wanting to be a mom made becoming one even more profound. The ache of waiting shaped my gratitude in ways I didn’t expect. Now I’m grateful for the early mornings I once only dreamed about.
2. This love makes you someone’s whole world.
There’s something sacred about being the person your children need most. Those little souls who need you and only you.
How all-consuming this love is, well, no one prepared me for that. When Jack climbs on the couch to snuggle or when Reese invites me to a tea party, I’m the one they’re calling for. Not just anyone. Me. Sometimes they both need me at the exact same moment, in different rooms, for completely different reasons. Being their everything is the greatest privilege I’ve ever known.
3. This love breaks you open (in the best way).
“The desperate grappling for who you were will fracture you,” I wrote in that post. “And then they make you whole.” That line keeps echoing in my head because it’s so true.
At ESPN, I’m Laura Rutledge, the host, the commentator, the one analyzing plays and interviewing coaches. At home, I’m just “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!” shouted from three rooms away. And somehow, the second identity makes me whole in ways the first never could. They break my heart and heal it simultaneously, like the way Reese still reaches for my hand in parking lots, the way Jack’s whole face lights up when I walk through the door.
Try to squeeze your eyes shut and imagine a world where you weren’t their mama. You can’t, right? And it was just a few years ago. The sheer awe of it all will bring you to tears.
4. This love grows in the ordinary moments.
I’m always looking for the gold in the mess now. And it’s always there. This is feeling helpless one minute, laughing the next, because everyone had to poop at the same time. Crying because it’s all so unbelievably beautiful. A newborn’s first smile. Tiny 3T jean shorts left on the bathroom floor. Sequins scattered across the coffee table like fairy dust from yesterday’s craft project.
The mess, the laundry, the dishes. They’re all evidence of a full life. Embracing the beauty of motherhood most often happens in those unglamorous, everyday moments. Making scrambled eggs and bananas for Reese on a paper plate. Taking Jack to the potty for the tenth time today. Following our bedtime routine for the thousandth time. That’s where maternal love grows—in the ordinary moments.
5. This love is the gift I want to give them.
Their grace and simple wisdom bring you to your knees. And while you’re at it, you pray that somehow you can give them what they deserve, that you’ll be enough for these little souls who see you as their whole world. For me, embracing the beauty of motherhood starts with seeing them clearly.
I see Reese’s confidence and quick wit. I see Jack’s biggest smiles, the ones he saves for his sister. “If I could only give you one gift in life,” I wrote in that post, “it would be the ability to see yourself how I see you every single day.” What I hope they know—really know—is not just that they’re loved, but that they’re seen. The privilege of being their mom, of watching who they’re becoming, is something I’ll never take for granted, even on the days when I wonder if I’m enough.
Maternal love isn’t neat or contained or easy to articulate. It’s overwhelming and chaotic and transformative. And I wouldn’t want it any other way.
What does embracing the beauty of motherhood look like for you right now?
