Saturday was picture-perfect. My little girl and I went for a nice, long walk, grabbed a coffee, visited a craft show, played at the park, and stopped by the library — all before Dad got home from work and took us out for supper. It was one of those days that you wish you could put on repeat. 

We woke up on Sunday morning to a little girl with a 103-degree fever. At first, I thought it was just another seasonal virus. But then a message came in from daycare: several confirmed cases of hand, foot, and mouth disease. I looked in our daughter’s mouth and saw the blisters, which made eating, drinking, and even sleeping impossible. Suddenly, we were living in 30-minute sleep intervals and a cloud of Tylenol and Motrin. 

And of course, the timing couldn’t have been worse. I had a 10-page paper due for school, and my husband’s work schedule was slammed. I took the night shifts and stayed home with our daughter during the day, leaving me completely exhausted and overstimulated. We started snapping at each other— not out of anger, but sheer depletion and the quiet resentment that creeps in when no one has anything left to give. 

Stress changes people. Exhaustion makes communication harder. When you feel stretched thin, it takes a small spark to light a fire. I found myself thinking, Why did I have to miss work again? When am I going to get a break? Why doesn’t my schedule matter?

The thing is, this wasn’t his fault. We were both doing the best we could. 

Eventually, the fever broke, the rash started to fade, and our little girl got her giggles and energy back. We also got a much-needed full night’s rest. We were able to catch up on work and school projects, and the house got cleaned. We apologized. 

Slowly, we felt like we were back to being us— a little worn down, yes, but still here. Together. 

From the difficult moments, I realized I needed to stop focusing on what wasn’t getting done and start focusing on what was —and how meaningful that really is. 

Because when our little ones are sick, scared, and uncomfortable, all they really want is us. To them, our arms are the safest place in the world. Being there to cuddle them, to wipe their tears, to hold them through the fever and the pain—it’s not just comforting, it’s everything. These moments, though exhausting and overwhelming for us, are how they learn what love looks like. It’s how they build trust. It’s how they know they’re not alone. They won’t remember the medicine schedules or the sleepless nights, but they will remember the feeling of being held, of being cared for when they needed it most. 

That steady presence becomes the voice in their head that says, “You’re safe. You’re loved. I’ve got you.”

And for us—my husband and I—we learned that during hard, in-between times, when we feel like strangers passing in the hallway, it’s more important than ever to acknowledge each other’s efforts. Even the small ones. To say, thank you, even when it’s late. To choose grace over blame. Because moving forward doesn’t mean pretending nothing happened; it means choosing connection over keeping score. 

Knowing there will be several more times like these as we look into the future, I hope we can remember that we’ve done hard things before. That the sleepless nights, the messy emotions, and the missteps don’t define us; how we show up for each other does. I want to slow down, ask for help when I need it, and offer grace more freely—to my husband, my child, and myself. Because the truth is, the hard seasons remind us of what really matters. 

When I am sitting there rocking my baby to sleep, I know that these are the moments I’ll dream about when I’m eighty.