April Showers bring May Weddings… and Me

There’s something about baby showers and bridal showers that makes me want to check my calendar… and suddenly become very, very busy. And before anyone clutches their pearls, hear me out. It’s not that I don’t love celebrating people. I do. I will show up, bring a gift, hype you up, tell you that you look beautiful, and mean every word. I’m a girls’ girl at heart.

But if I’m being honest, it’s not really about the parties themselves. It’s about what those rooms feel like. It’s too much normalcy thrown at my face all at once. Everything is coordinated, timed, and expected. Engagements, weddings, babies, milestones, all lined up like a checklist everyone else got handed. April showers bring May weddings, and somehow it all just keeps moving forward in this perfectly predictable rhythm. There’s a flow to it that seems so natural to everyone in the room, and I’m sitting there smiling, clapping, celebrating, while also feeling like I somehow missed the memo on how life was “supposed” to go.

A bridal party in matching floral robes sits together, smiling, posing for a picture

Because my life has never looked like that. Mine has been pauses and pivots, workarounds and waiting, figuring things out in ways that don’t come with a neat timeline or a clear next step. So when I walk into those spaces, it doesn’t just feel like a celebration. It feels like stepping into a version of life that moves easier for other people. And I feel all of it at once. The noise, the expectations, the constant motion of a room that assumes everyone fits into the same story.

So if I come to your shower, know this. I’m there because I care. I’m there because you matter to me. That part of me is real. That part never wavers. But if I step out for a minute, leave a little early, or sit quietly taking it all in, it’s not distance. It’s not disinterested. It’s me finding my footing in a space that moves differently than I do, and still choosing to show up anyway.

A decorated table set for a baby or bridal shower with pink plates, bows, and place settings.

Because showing up looks different for me, it always has. It’s not always loud or effortless or perfectly timed. Sometimes it’s quiet. Sometimes it’s me taking a deep breath before I walk into the room and giving myself a little pep talk like, “Okay, girl, go be social.” Sometimes it’s me staying just long enough to love on you well and then slipping out before my battery fully dies. And that counts. Even if it doesn’t look like everyone else’s version of participation, it still counts.

But if I’m being real for a second, there’s another layer to it. I really don't like mom groups sometimes. Not because I don’t respect them, not because I don’t get it, but because they can feel like a new kind of space where I don’t quite belong. And I know, deep down, it’s not personal. No one is sitting there trying to exclude me. But that doesn’t always change how it feels when you’re the one on the outside of conversations you can’t quite step into.

A mother sits on a white couch cuddling and laughing with her young child in a bright living room.

It’s the way conversations move quickly into shared experiences I haven’t lived. The way everyone seems to instinctively know the rhythm, what to say, what to laugh at, and what comes next. And I’m there, present, kind, engaged… nodding along, smiling at the right moments, laughing when it feels right, but still translating a world that doesn’t always translate back to me. Still trying to find a place to land in conversations that weren’t built with my life in mind. That feeling can be extremely lonely, but it’s also clarifying that connection doesn’t only happen in identical experiences, it happens in intention, in presence, in showing up anyway. So if I’m a little quieter in those spaces, if I listen more than I speak, if I hover just outside the center of it all, it’s not because I don’t want connection. It’s because I’m still figuring out where my place fits in a room that wasn’t built with my story in mind. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe part of my story is learning how to stand in those spaces anyway, not shrinking, not forcing, just existing as I am, fully.

Because my life may not follow the timeline, the rhythm, or the expectations that fill those rooms, but that doesn’t make it any less full. Any less meaningful. Any less worthy of being seen. It just means my story is being written a little differently, and honestly, I’ve never really been the “follow the script” type anyway. Maybe there’s space for all of us after all. It just doesn’t always look the way we were told it would. I don’t always fit into that story. Not because I’m lacking anything, but because my life doesn’t follow that kind of timeline. And that can feel isolating, even when you’re surrounded by people. Even when you’re genuinely happy for them. Because you can be full of joy for someone else and still feel the quiet weight of what your own life doesn’t look like at the same time.

And then Mother’s Day rolls around, and it’s that same feeling… just louder.

Mother’s Day cards on a wooden table beside a colorful bouquet of flowers, with one card reading “Happy Mother’s Day.”

It’s not intentional. No one is trying to make it sting. But it does anyway. Every store you walk into is lined with “mama” this and “mom life” that. Shirts, mugs, signs, cards. It’s everywhere you look, like the world is wrapped in one role and one story. And I find myself wondering where the space is for the rest of us. Where are the aunt shirts? The ones who show up, who love hard, who play a role that may not be center stage, but is still real, still meaningful, still full of heart. Because love doesn’t only exist in one title. Care doesn’t only come in one form. And yet, sometimes it feels like the world only knows how to celebrate one version of it at a time. And again, I know it’s not personal. No one is designing store displays thinking about who might feel left out. But that doesn’t always stop the quiet sting of realizing there isn’t a place carved out for your kind of love in those moments.

And if we’re being honest, some of the most meaningful “mothering” I’ve ever experienced hasn’t come from someone with the title “mom” at all.

A child holds a “Happy Mother’s Day” card between two white magnolia flowers.

It’s the church ladies. The ones who always seemed to be watching without making it obvious, who knew your name, your story, and your business before you even said a word. The ones who would fix your collar without asking, hand you a peppermint like it was part of communion, and then turn right around and pray over you like it was second nature. They carried this quiet authority, not loud, not showy, but steady. A kind of watchful love that didn’t need recognition to be real. They were paying attention in ways you didn’t always understand at the time. Making sure you were where you were supposed to be, nudging you back when you drifted, reminding you who you were when the world got too loud and confusing. They corrected you when you needed it, not to tear you down, but to keep you aligned, and then in the very same breath, they covered you in grace like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And if we were honest, none of us would be here without those women who prayed.

The ones with the worn-out, beat-up Bibles that have seen more tears than pages, pages soft from being turned over and over again, verses underlined, circled, dated, lived in. The ones who didn’t just read scripture like it was something distant or abstract, but carried it with them, whispered it under their breath, held onto it in moments when there was nothing else to hold onto. They didn’t just talk about faith, they practiced it in the quiet, in the unseen, in the ordinary moments that no one else was watching. They prayed without ceasing. Not in a performative way, not for attention, but because it was woven into who they were. They prayed over their children and other people’s children. They prayed over situations no one else even knew were happening. They prayed when things were good, giving thanks in the middle of it, and they prayed even harder when things weren’t, when life got heavy, when answers didn’t come quickly, when everything felt uncertain. They prayed in pews and in kitchens, in cars and on front porches, in the middle of conversations and in the silence after everyone else had gone to bed.

A little girl in a patterned dress shows a small heart-shaped temporary tattoo on their upper arm that says “Mom.”

The thing is, a lot of us didn’t even realize we were being covered like that. We didn’t always see it happening in real time. But we were walking through life held up by prayers we didn’t pray ourselves, strengthened by faith that had been built long before we ever understood what it meant. There were battles we didn’t have to fight the same way because someone else was already on their knees about it. There were moments we made it through that had fingerprints of those prayers all over them, even if we couldn’t name it then.

That kind of faith, that kind of consistency, that kind of unseen, unwavering love… it doesn’t just stay in one generation. It carries. It stretches. It holds things together in ways we don’t always have language for. It’s quiet, but it’s powerful. Subtle, but unshakable. And then there’s the feral aunt.

An aunt and niece sitting at the beach during sunset

The one who doesn’t quite follow the rules, who shows up a little louder, a little bolder, a little less polished than everyone else. She’s the one who lets you stay up too late, tells you the stories you probably weren’t supposed to hear yet, and somehow becomes your safe place anyway. She’s the one who hypes you up like you’re the best thing that’s ever happened and means it with her whole chest.

She’s loyal in a way that doesn’t need to be explained. Protective in a way that doesn’t ask for permission. If someone crosses you, she’s already ten steps ahead, ready to defend you before you even find the words. And she doesn’t always show love in the neat, picture-perfect ways people expect, but it’s real, it’s loud, and it’s unforgettable.

She teaches you how to take up space. How to laugh a little louder. How to not apologize for who you are. And even if she’s a little chaotic, a little unfiltered, she shows up. Consistently. Fiercely. Without hesitation.

And the truth is, those women, the church ladies, the ones who prayed, the feral aunts, the ones who don’t always fit into the traditional mold, they are doing a kind of mothering that doesn’t always get named. But it matters. It shapes people. It holds people. It stays with you.

And maybe that’s what it all comes back to. The quiet, steady choice to love people anyway. To lift each other up, even when our lives look completely different, even when we don’t fully understand each other’s paths, timelines, or decisions. To choose connection over comparison. To choose grace over assumption. To show up for people not because their lives mirror ours, but because they matter.

Because if those women taught us anything, it’s that love doesn’t have to look identical to be real. It doesn’t have to agree to be present. It doesn’t have to fit into one role or one title to be meaningful. There is something powerful about choosing to stand in the gap for someone else, to pray for other people’s children like they’re your own, to speak life over them, to cover them in words and faith and hope, even when their life looks nothing like yours ever did.

That kind of love is intentional. It’s not passive. It’s not surface-level. It’s the kind that says, I may not fully understand your world, but I still want the best for you in it. It’s the kind that roots for people quietly, consistently, faithfully. The kind that celebrates without comparison, that shows up without needing to relate to every detail, that extends care without conditions attached.

And if we’re honest, we’ve all been held up at some point by someone else’s prayers, someone else’s belief in us, someone else choosing to pour into us when they didn’t have to. There were moments we didn’t even realize we were being carried, covered, and protected in ways we couldn’t see at the time. That kind of love leaves a mark. It shapes how we move through the world, whether we realize it or not. So maybe it’s not about where we fit perfectly. Maybe it’s about how we show up anyway. How we choose to love across differences, across lifestyles, across timelines that don’t match up neatly. How we become the kind of people who don’t just stay in our own lane, but reach across and say, I see you, I’m for you, and I’m lifting you up right where you are.

Because that kind of care, the kind that isn’t limited by titles or expectations, the kind that isn’t confined to one version of life, that’s the kind that holds everything together. Quietly. Faithfully. Without needing recognition. The real legacy. Not just who we are in our own lives, but how we show up in someone else’s.

Love always,

Sassy, classy, and still the girl in the corner with an iced coffee, cheering you on and praying for you.