How to Do It All (And Still Forget What Day It Is)

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7. A Day in My Life

My typical day starts at 5:00 a.m.

Either my alarm or my husband wakes me. First thing I do is wake up our eldest son — he’s in the morning school session. After a quick stretch, I head out to hang the laundry while my husband prepares breakfast. We usually only have a cup of coffee to start the day.

By 5:15 a.m., our eldest is still dozing on the sofa, so I wake him again. By now, breakfast is ready.

5:30 a.m. – He goes to shower, and my husband and I catch up for a few minutes before I take my turn. I usually do the dishes first, then get myself ready.

By 5:55 a.m., our son is all dressed and putting on his shoes. My husband is strict — he drives him to school at 6:00 a.m. sharp to avoid the traffic.

6:20 a.m. – My husband’s back. School’s just 2 km away.

6:45 a.m. – We wake the other two boys, and then he sends me to work.

12:45 p.m. – My husband fetches our eldest from school, then picks me up. We have lunch together at home.

1:45 p.m. – I return to work.

4:30 p.m. – Work’s done.

4:50 p.m. – Home again. My husband picks up our second son while I rest for 10 minutes, then start my 45-minute workout. Meanwhile, he starts preparing dinner.

6:20 p.m. – The kids have showered. My husband’s still cooking.

7:15 p.m. – We all have dinner together.

8:30 p.m. – I wash the dishes and do laundry while he rests with the kids.

9:00 p.m. – We take turns showering.

9:30 p.m. – Lights out.

I don’t always know what day it is. But I know I lived it fully.

To strength, sweat, and showing up every day —

Finding power in motherhood and muscle

Last Night, He Needed Help with Homework. This Morning, He Didn’t Need My Hand Anymore.

“Mama, do you want to see my house?”

It was a simple question — one I’d heard before in one form or another. But this time, my ten-year-old’s voice held something different. Not just excitement. Not just curiosity.

There was pride.

And that quiet seriousness that makes a mother pause in her tracks.

He was holding up his tablet, Minecraft glowing on the screen like a portal into his imagination. I set down the laundry, wiped my hands on my leggings, and gave him my full attention.

“Of course,” I said with a smile.

What followed was… honestly, impressive.

He took me on a full tour of the digital home he’d built — from the garden filled with tulips to the open-concept kitchen. He’d added furniture, lighting, even a chandelier (“with glowstone, Mama, because glass isn’t bright enough”). There was a second floor, a balcony, and — get this — a security system.

And while he walked me through every detail, from color schemes to flooring choices, something inside me shifted.

I wasn’t just looking at a game.

I was looking at growth.

My son, the boy who once couldn’t form a sentence without stumbling, was now confidently explaining architectural design. The same boy who once needed me to hold his spoon, now making virtual blueprints and solving problems with logic and creativity.

And just like that, my heart did that thing — that soft, painful twist we all get as mothers.

That how-is-time-moving-this-fast moment.

I blinked and saw flashes of him as a toddler — sticky fingers, endless questions, snuggles and giggles when I kiss his cheek repeteadly. I saw the delivery room, the fear, the joy, the aching love of those first few hours when I held him and whispered, “You’re mine.”

Now here he was, building his own world.

One block at a time.

In our home, my husband and I always talk about preparing our kids for the future — giving them roots and wings. We imagine their grown-up lives, their careers, the kind of adults they might become.

But I’ve learned something:

The future doesn’t always arrive with a diploma or a deep voice.

Sometimes it comes in the form of a pixelated house on a tablet.

Sometimes it knocks quietly, like this — a little boy saying, “Look what I made.”

And in that quiet moment, I didn’t just see a game.

I saw him. My firstborn.

Growing not just in size, but in spirit.

So no, he didn’t just build a house.

He showed me that he’s slowly, beautifully, becoming someone all his own.

And just like that, motherhood reminded me — again — how fast it all goes. How loud the quiet moments can be. And how every day, in a million small ways, our children grow right in front of us.

I am so glad I chose to stay healthy.

I chose to stay healthy — and in return, I got so much more than health.

I get to enjoy watching my kids grow. 

To strength, sweat, and showing up every day —

Finding power in motherhood and muscle

Imperfect Man, Perfect Match: 5 Things My Husband Taught Me Without Saying a Word

He doesn’t buy me things.

He forgets our anniversary sometimes.

He leaves his socks absolutely everywhere.

But every single morning — without fail — he makes me coffee.

Even when he's sick. Even when we’re not speaking.

It’s our quiet, sacred ritual. A small cup of loyalty.

I never know what I want to eat at a restaurant. But somehow, he always does — not just for me, but for the kids too.

He sees us, in ways no one else does.

And that’s why he’s the greatest lesson I’ve ever lived.

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Most people judge him — the man who stayed home while I went to work.

They whisper: “A real man wouldn’t give up his career.”

But what they don’t see is the sacrifice.

He put his dreams on hold so mine could bloom — and so our little ones could grow up with love, not just supervision.

He held our babies, soothed their cries, and faced the world’s ridicule… while I chased purpose outside our home.

He never said it out loud, but I know — sometimes, it hurts him.

Still, he stayed. Quiet. Strong.

We didn’t fall into a fairytale.

We built something real — brick by brick, between school runs, hospital visits, and sleepless nights we almost gave up.

He never gave speeches.

But he taught me five unforgettable things — without ever needing to speak:

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1. Loyalty isn’t loud.

He shows up. Always.

When I stay silent through pain, he is loud in his love — defending me, even from those closest to him.

If I ever did the unthinkable, I believe he'd still stand beside me. That’s how fiercely he protects me.

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2. Patience is a love language.

We fight. We fall silent.

But when I sprained my ankle, he still massaged it every night — even while we weren’t speaking.

His actions whispered: "I may be mad, but I’m not leaving. You're mine to care for."

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3. Strength is gentle.

He holds our children with the same hands that carry the invisible weight of judgment.

Most wouldn’t survive what he endures. But he bears it — all of it — for us. With grace.

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4. Forgiveness is freedom.

I’ve failed him. Hurt him.

Yet he chooses grace, every time. Not because it’s easy — but because he loves me more than he needs to be right.

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5. Love is a choice — made daily.

We are not perfect. Far from it.

But every day, even on the hardest ones, he chooses me. And I choose him.

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He’s not the man I pictured at 20.

But he’s the man I thank God for at 38.

Imperfect? Absolutely.

But perfect — for me.

To strength, sweat, and showing up every day —

Finding power in motherhood and muscle

I Started My Fitness Journey at 38 — Here’s What Surprised Me Most

I never thought I’d say this… but I started my fitness journey at 38 — and I don’t regret a single step.

What surprises me most? I fell head-over-heels in love with weight lifting.

Yes, me. The woman who once believed that lifting weights would instantly turn her into The Hulk in yoga pants. I used to nod solemnly at the treadmill, thinking cardio was the holy grail of fitness. I jogged because I thought it was the right thing to do. Healthy moms run, right?

But here’s the truth: cardio drained me. I'd finish my jogs wheezing, sweaty, and one hairpin away from total collapse. The next morning, I'd wake up as if I’d fought off a godzilla in my dreams — sore, achy, and inexplicably tired.

Then came the ankle injuries. One after another. Like clockwork. I’d finally get into a groove, and bam — sidelined for weeks. Every restart felt like climbing Everest in Crocs.

One evening, as I was nursing my latest ice pack, my husband casually said,

"Why don’t you try weight lifting instead?"

I looked at him like he’d suggested joining a circus. “Me? Lifting weights? I’ll look bulky!”

But deep down, a little voice whispered:

“What if you’ve been wrong?”

So, I gave it a try. Hesitantly. Awkwardly. I started with baby dumbbells that looked like they belonged in a toy store. I followed beginner strength workouts online and set a tiny goal: just show up. 

And then… magic.

By week four, something shifted.

I didn’t just look stronger — I felt it.

I could carry all the groceries in one trip. I could scoop up my toddler mid-meltdown and walk across the mall like a champion. Laundry baskets? No problem. My mom strength was kicking in.

But here’s the best part: I finally understood that building muscle is a journey, not a fluke. Those “bulky” physiques I feared? They take years of serious effort — and often professional help — to achieve.

What I got instead was power. Confidence. Endurance.

And honestly? Joy.

I wasn’t just getting fit. I was becoming someone who owned her time, her body, and her choices.

Not just a mom.

Not just a wife.

But a woman who finally realized she’s worth showing up for.

So no, I didn’t start at 18. Or 28. I started at 38. And that’s perfectly okay.

Because the best time to begin isn’t when you’re “young enough” or “ready.”

It’s when you finally believe that you matter too.

So if you're standing at the edge of your own transformation, wondering if it’s too late — it’s not.

Your strong-mom era can begin today.

To strength, sweat, and showing up every day —

Finding power in motherhood and muscle