You know when you go to use

your Swiffer sweeper,

a broom,

your vacuum,

or whatever,

and you're thinking that your floors are not all that dirty,

and then, like whoa, you see just how terribly wrong you were

...motherhood is kind of like that.

You walk around only seeing what you're doing wrong and how you're screwing up, and it's not until you look a little bit closer that you notice the magnitude of work and goodness you're a major part of.

My dirty floor doesn't mean that

I don't clean,

that I'm lazy,

or incapable of keeping up with housework.

My dirty floor is an indication

that life is being truly lived inside of my home,

that I've got a lot on my plate,

and that sometimes I'd rather eat some grace-filled pie than let myself be swallowed whole by guilt.

As women and mothers living in the year 2021,

amidst a pandemic,

so much is demanded of us.

So much is being expected from us.

So much is being told to us about what a "good mom," good kids, and a good home looks like.

If only we could convince society and ourselves that it's not

how we look,

what we do,

or what we don't do that defines us;

it's who we are at our core, beneath those obvious and less striking self-diagnosed imperfections.

Sometimes all I see is the grime;

other times, all I see is the effort I'm putting in and the product not equivalating.

But, really,

all I need to see

-- all any of us women need to see --

is our deep-rooted, irrefutable inherent worth --

even if we’ve got to search a bit to find it.

And, I'm telling you, once we do, we’ve got hold on to that sucker like the lifeline it truly is.