becoming at Home

The past few months have been a blur of transition—boxes everywhere, routines shifting, emotions rising and falling like a roller coaster I never bought a ticket for. Somewhere in the chaos, I stopped doing one of the most essential things for my well-being: counseling. I typically see my counselor once a month, but with the move and the demands of life, that rhythm slipped quietly out of my hands.

Now that we’re finally settling into our new place, I felt that gentle nudge inside: Go back. You need this. Counseling has always been a lifeline for my mental health—and let’s be honest, my counselor is a badass. She doesn’t coddle me; she calls me out. She sees straight through the stories I tell myself and gets me back on track.

When our session started, we spent a few minutes catching up. Then she asked me how I’ve been adjusting to life as a stay-at-home parent (SAHP). I said it casually, “Oh, you know… I’m just at home taking care of our son. I’m still figuring out a rhythm and how to manage the chores…”

I rambled on about keeping the house in order, how behind I feel, how I pressure myself to do more. In the middle of my self-critique, she stopped me and asked:

“How come you say, ‘I’m just at home taking care of our son’?”

Her question landed like a weight in my chest. A mirror I wasn’t ready to look into.

Why do I minimize it? Why is something I respect so deeply in others the very thing I shrink away from in myself?

Because being a stay-at-home parent is often a thankless job. It’s invisible work. There are no performance reviews. No promotions. No applause. No uniform. No clearly measurable “success.” Just the same four walls, the ongoing cycle of tasks, the noise of toys on the floor, the unpredictable rhythms of a tiny human, and the emotional labor that never once clocks out.

I used to thrive in environments where intensity was currency—where I wore uniforms and earned titles, where people thanked me for my service, where adrenaline felt like purpose. U.S. Army soldier. Registered Nurse.
Two identities that came with honor, dignity, and external validation.

Now my most common outfit is pajamas and unwashed hair tossed in a bun—and I’m learning that this, too, is holy work. Because motherhood is a battleground of a different kind. It demands a quiet strength. A hidden resilience. A love that is poured out in small, ordinary acts that rarely get noticed—but shape a human being and a home.

And maybe the struggle isn’t whether the work is valuable. Maybe the real struggle is giving ourselves permission to believe that it is.

Maybe I’m still learning. Maybe I’m still growing into this role. But I refuse to minimize myself ever again. I am showing up. I am loving deeply. I am doing work that matters—even when no one claps. And that is enough.

So, here’s what I’m choosing today: to stop shrinking my role and start honoring it. To stop saying “just” and start saying this matters. Because it does. And if you’re in a similar season—feeling unseen, overwhelmed, or unsure of who you are becoming—may you remember this truth:
The most important work you will ever do might be the work no one ever sees.