I don’t really want to go slow. I daydream about slow evenings on a front porch (a front porch I don’t currently have, but would love someday) sipping ice-cold lemonade. But let’s be honest. It makes me anxious. Slow means fewer check marks. It’s unsatisfying and even painful. There’s no instant gratification.

Sitting in my bed, I attempt to hide and drown out the noise downstairs with the rhythmic hum of my breast pump. I can still hear the baby crying and my toddler son whining. His twin sister yells at the top of her lungs for no reason, except maybe to keep up with the decibel level of everyone else. I’ve been here longer than necessary, partly because pumping takes extra time. I worry my supply is dropping, maybe due to diet changes or stress or who knows what. My mind conjures up a thousand possibilities, all of which I feel the urgent need to research.

Around this time every year, I feel frazzled and tired. I often feel like the year flew by with little fanfare and minuscule progress. Without taking time to actually reflect on the year, those feelings of weariness and discouragement scream loudly. But God once again showed he’s good. He taught me that “accomplishment” sometimes means getting things checked off a list, but other times it simply means tiny steps of growth that maybe no one else sees. And both the check marks and the baby steps warrant celebration and gratitude.