To the Moms in Waiting

Mother’s Day is, in so many ways, a beautiful celebration. It’s filled with handmade cards, armfuls of flowers, sleepy breakfasts in bed, and the kind of love that feels both ordinary and sacred all at once. It honors the women who are in the thick of motherhood—the ones wiping counters and tears, packing lunches, and kissing scraped knees.

But there’s another group of women moving quietly through this day, often unseen.

The moms in waiting.

If that’s you, Mother’s Day can feel complicated. Tender. Heavy in ways that are hard to explain. It can stir up a quiet ache—a wondering if this longing you carry will ever be fulfilled. It can bring tears that show up unexpectedly, even in the middle of a perfectly ordinary moment. You might find yourself smiling at someone else’s joy while holding your own grief just beneath the surface.

Joanna Gott

And both of those things can be true at the same time.

Right now, I find myself in what I’ve come to call the “Maycember” stretch of life—the end-of-school-year whirlwind filled with field trips, performances, permission slips, and a calendar that somehow feels fuller than December. My days are loud and full and beautiful in their own chaotic way.

But I haven’t forgotten what it felt like to be on the other side of this season.

Before Penelope came into my life, there were four long years of waiting. Four Mother’s Days that arrived with equal parts hope and heartache. I was in the process of adopting her from China, and due to travel delays it often felt slow and uncertain. Each year, I held onto the possibility that maybe by next Mother’s Day, things would be different.

And each year, I found myself still waiting.

I remember sitting in church on those Sundays, surrounded by celebration, feeling both included and invisible all at once. I remember the quiet prayers whispered through tears. The questions that didn’t have answers. The ache of wanting something so deeply and having no control over when—or if—it would come.

Joanna Gott

If you’re in that place now, I want you to know this: you are not alone.

Maybe you are walking through infertility, navigating doctor’s appointments, treatments, and the emotional rollercoaster that comes with them. Maybe you’re in the middle of the adoption process, filling out paperwork and waiting for doors to open. Maybe you’re fostering, loving children deeply while holding them loosely. Maybe you’re single and carrying a quiet dream of motherhood that hasn’t yet taken shape. Maybe you’ve experienced loss—miscarriage, stillbirth, or dreams that ended too soon.

There are so many ways to be a mom in waiting.

And each one carries its own kind of grief.

It’s okay to feel that grief.

It’s okay if Mother’s Day doesn’t feel like a celebration this year. It’s okay if it feels tender, or if you need to step away from the noise for a bit. It’s okay to hold hope in one hand and hurt in the other. Those two things are not opposites—they often walk side by side.

Scripture speaks so gently to seasons like this. In Ecclesiastes 3:1, we’re reminded, “There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens.” Waiting is a season. Not an easy one, but a meaningful one nonetheless.

And in Psalm 27:14: “Wait for the Lord; be strong and take heart and wait for the Lord.” That kind of waiting isn’t passive—it’s active, courageous, and deeply faithful.

One of my favorite verses during those years was Isaiah 40:31: “But those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles…” Some days, “soaring” felt like too big of a word. Some days, it looked more like simply getting out of bed and choosing to hope again. And that counted.

It still counts.

Waiting can feel like a pause in your life, like everything else is moving forward while you remain in the same place. But I want to gently remind you: waiting is not wasted time. There is growth happening here, even if it’s quiet. There is strength being formed, even if you don’t feel strong.

And there is a God who sees you fully.

You are not forgotten.

Not on this day, and not on any of the ordinary days in between.

If I could sit across from you today, I’d probably say something like this: I know this hurts. I know the longing runs deep. And I also know that your story is still being written.

I can’t promise timelines or outcomes. I can’t tie your waiting up neatly with a bow. But I can tell you that hope is still allowed to live here. Even in the uncertainty. Even in the questions.

And maybe—just maybe—we can find a small thread of humor in all of it too. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that life rarely unfolds the way we expect. Sometimes it’s messier, slower, and far more surprising. (And yes, sometimes it includes managing a “Maycember” calendar that makes you wonder how it’s humanly possible to attend one more end-of-year event.)

To the moms in waiting: you are seen. You are held. You are already carrying a kind of motherhood in your heart that is real and meaningful, even now.

This Mother’s Day, whether you celebrate, grieve, or do a little bit of both, know that your story matters.

And you are not alone in the waiting.