What God Teaches in the Seasons We Didn’t Ask For

Sometimes fortitude looks like feeding a baby, wiping tears, and trusting God to provide.

I had no intention of being six months postpartum, back at home, unemployed, and wrestling to see God in new ways—but here we are.

Fortitude is not my favorite pastime. It requires presence. It slows you down. It teaches you to stay. I’m writing this with my little bundle of joy crawling around me, grabbing anything within arm’s reach, while I pump and she tests the limits of her vocal cords. All this floor… yet she’s determined to be right underneath me, like she pays rent for that space. And I’m convinced every yell is her checking if she can out-scream the last one. I don’t think she’s exhausted her vocal range yet—but she keeps me on my toes. And as foggy as this season feels, I’m certain she entered our lives for such a time as this.

She brings joy, just as God promised.

While I was pregnant, God told me this would be a season of joy, worship, and continuation. She is a promise fulfilled. Even in the blur of postpartum, she radiates delight. Ask me what I’ve done the past few months—honestly, I couldn’t tell you anything besides keeping my baby alive. Ask me what she’s done every week of her six months? Every detail: documented, remembered, etched into my heart.

Great grace.

I knew transition would be hard. Staying in Texas, away from family, was hard. Moving back home and being surrounded by family is also challenging. I’ve been gone four years. I am not who I was. They are not who they were. Even family deserves permission to be different. We have to choose our hard.

I didn’t directly ask for this season. But the moment I asked to be used by God, however He saw fit, the direction of my life became His discretion. The tension isn’t an identity crisis. I love being a mom. I know I am more than a title because I’m a daughter of God. It’s learning to find contentment without having control over my expectations as a newly 30-year-old… who honestly forgot she even turned 30. I gave birth and six weeks later entered a new decade. The first three months were such a blur, I forgot I had a birthday. It was overshadowed by Father’s Day this year.

It’s in the fog that I have to remember what God has done.

Stones of remembrance, like in Joshua 4, matter here. I haven’t been the best at reminding myself—but I’m trying. When we find ourselves in seasons we didn’t ask for, we have to remember what God has done up to this point.

Present.

I’m learning to be present.

To lean into what I can’t control.

To trust God in new ways.

I’ve had to reframe my perspective—God is sustaining us, and for that I am grateful. My baby won’t be this little forever, so I’m soaking it in, taking mental snapshots for the days when old age comes knocking.

Remembering what He’s already done reminds me that uncertainty isn’t forever.

One day, I’ll be employed again. Or my content creation will finally generate the income we need. Either way, God will provide.

Until then, I’ll keep enduring. I’ll keep reminding myself of His goodness. I’ll lean into the joys of motherhood and watch my baby conquer every milestone.

Hope breathes in this truth: I can trust an unknown future with a known God.

We don’t get to choose the path God directs us down, but we can rest knowing He walks with us. It’s all to make us more like Him. No more asking to be used by God, then running away when it gets hard.

I’d love to hear where you are in this season. What does it look like for you? How are you challenging yourself to remember the goodness of God—even when it doesn’t feel good?

A Poem for the Fog

One day, what was once no longer belonged.
And I can bet that one day can easily become day one.

Day one to start.
Day one to breathe.
Day one to be everything God intended for us to be.

It comes with being present
after dwelling in His presence—
even when feeling extremely disconnected.

A place we fight to remain,
Upon the altar,
A pleasant fragrance.

Yet fortitude is born of enduring the night—
Where the light always rises again.

Night seasons are gritty,
Full of growth.
And just know: we are never alone.

One day, we’ll see that day one for you and me
Holds the peace to start again,
The space to keep walking.

With love,
Janae Carlee