My life, so far, has been marked by rhythms - these regular and repeating patterns through seasons of life.

I can not say that I was aware of any rhythm in my life before my children. Their arrival, one at a time, thrust me into a pattern of giving and sacrifice I had not known before.

From the moment I saw the tiny blinking rice grain on the ultrasound monitor, I was in love. Upon the birth of my first child, my son, a new rhythm of life was ushered in. Unpredictable cries not seemingly linked to any specific event or time were the norm. Indiscernible movements and noises seemed nearly impossible to address or understand. My first three or four days with this new life were beautiful, dizzying, adorable, and exhausting. In that short time, I wondered how in the world new mothers made it - how did they do this? This was hard!

But just as beautifully nuanced color of morning is as it fills a space, the blessing of a pattern was laid on me. Within a week or so, I began to be able to discern the types of cries and what was needed to pacify them. I got used to the “milk coma” my son would experience after nursing. My life as a new mother was still hard, but the mystery it held tightly just a week before began to loosen the strength of its grip.

While becoming a mother has been both one of the greatest joys and most challenging endeavors in my life so far, it has solidified in me that the idea of the hard, new things that come into our lives will also eventually become a pattern. A rhythm.

Something we can move with.

One of the toughest, weirdest things I’ve had to adjust to recently is co-parenting. Not the action of co-parenting itself, but the innocent humans involved in this most impersonal practice. A practice, if children exist, that is born out of divorce.

Even with the irregularity this legally binding pattern dictates, God has allowed something beautiful to be birthed in response.

I am thankful God moved me out of the chaos and into a more peaceful space, but it has been tough for me to get used to seeing my children on an irregular basis. The week they are with me is a busy, enlightening, joyful, and exhausting seven days. We laugh, talk, cry, and learn each other all over again as these seven days are always different from the last. They are in a season of life where many things are serious and need immediate attention. I do my best to celebrate the young adults they are becoming, honor their feelings, and continue to shepherd them as I have been instructed.

In the early days of my divorce, I was working a 9-to-5 as an interior designer but knew that the schedule and type of work were not at all sustainable. I desired to have an outlet that allowed me to recenter and express myself creatively. So, on the weeks when my children were not with me, I began to paint (again). Right there in the middle of my full-sized bed in my apartment. I would lay a drawing board down on my bed, take out my paper and watercolors, and paint. I had painted before and remembered the calm and peace this activity had on me. I remembered the joy it brought to others.

There were no expectations in the beginning, painting was just a way to pass my time, fill my heart and head, and rediscover who I was. The hard things in life were softened by surrendering to this pattern.

Over time, just as a pattern always reveals, it became a rhythm that I learned to move with and thrive in.