Learning to Mother with Mary: How Her Example Inspires, Intimidates, and Transforms Me
When I first became a mother, I knew life would never be the same. I had entered uncharted territory—holy ground—but I didn’t realize how unsteady my footing would often feel. How could I be responsible for a child when, in so many ways, I still felt like such a child myself? I didn’t know what I was doing, and the weight of that uncertainty was overwhelming.
In those quiet, exhausting, often overwhelming moments, I found myself drawn more and more toward the Blessed Mother. It was as if a part of me knew, deep down, that she was exactly who I needed. I needed my Mother, not as a distant figure but as a companion to guide me and help me in this new journey.
Not because I felt similar to her—but because I didn’t. And somehow, in that contrast, I found the beginnings of the courage and comfort I desperately needed. Mary’s motherhood—her way of saying yes to God, staying with Jesus through everything, and loving in silence and strength—has become a wellspring of inspiration. It has also, at times, deeply intimidated me. But most of all, it has been a lifeline, helping me become the mother I’m called to be.
Mary Inspires Me: Courage in the Face of Fear
If I could name one constant in my motherhood journey, it would be fear. I wish this wasn’t true, but it is. I have a strong avoidant part of me that wants to turn from the scary, the uncertain, the overwhelming. There are moments when I grasp for control, try to be self-sufficient, and run away when my fears scream louder than my faith.
But Mary stayed.
At the foot of the Cross, when everything seemed unbearable, Mary didn’t run. She remained—not because she had no fear, but because her love was even stronger than her fear. Her gaze was fixed not on her inability to handle the moment, but on Jesus. It was the ultimate unidirectional gaze, His mother saying to her child, “I am here. You are not alone.”
When I remember this image, it becomes a source of strength for me. If Mary, in her deepest sorrow, could stay and remain present in such profound suffering, then perhaps, in my moments of fear, I can do the same. It shows me that if she could do it, I can too. I can tap into the courage I need. I can be steadfast. I can show up. Stay. And not look away.
Mary Intimidates Me: Letting Go of Control
The evolution—and erosion—of Transcendence in Star Wars over time is driven by an ever fainter spiritual whisper. The original trilogy was filled with awe and mystery: the Force, the Jedi, the sense of destiny. Even the prequels, for all their flaws, leaned into the idea of spiritual discipline, the seduction of pride, and the failure of religious institutions.
While Mary’s courage inspires me, her surrender—her Fiat—deeply intimidates me. Because if Mary could do it, then so could I. There are many things Mary did that I pray I never have to do. It is terrifying to think about giving up control, especially when it comes to my children.
I remember the Presentation of Jesus in the Temple, when Simeon told Mary that a sword would pierce her soul. It was a moment of holy dedication, yes—but also one of immense heartbreak. She offered her son to God, fully and publicly, even though it meant she would suffer greatly.
As a mother, I don’t want to imagine the loss of my child. And yet, I’ve pictured it—more times than I’d like to admit. Intrusive thoughts come unexpectedly, terrifyingly. Even during pregnancy, I remember the vulnerability of knowing how common miscarriages are, wondering: What if it’s my turn? My turn to lose a child. My turn to look death in the eye. My turn to be asked to trust God with something I couldn’t bear to lose.
Mary’s Fiat—her radical, trusting yes—is hard to imitate because it asks something so profound: to love without clinging, to give without possessing, to trust without full understanding.
She said yes to becoming a mother as a virgin, risking scandal and ridicule. She said yes to God’s plan even when it involved the suffering and death of her child. She said yes to allowing Jesus to belong first to the Father, not to her.
That kind of surrender isn’t passive—it’s powerful. And it’s terrifying.
I know deep down that there will be moments in my motherhood when I’m asked to let go—, in the everyday acts of releasing control, trusting God’s plan for my children’s lives, and letting them become who they’re meant to be. When those moments come, I pray I’ll have the grace to echo Mary’s yes.
Mary Helps Me: A Mother to a Mother
One of the most transformative moments in my early motherhood came shortly after we brought our first child home from the hospital. I was overwhelmed by how fragile and delicate my son seemed. Everything felt like life and death. I was on edge—desperate to do everything right, but drowning in exhaustion and uncertainty.
One night, in the haze of sleep deprivation, I found myself spiraling emotionally. My husband was fast asleep, and I was alone again, battling exhaustion beyond words, feeling trapped between needing to sleep and knowing my child needed me awake.
In that moment, I felt Our Lady come to me.
It started when my attention was drawn to our framed picture of the Madonna of the Streets—my favorite depiction of Our Lady. Suddenly, I felt her presence—not as a picture or a distant image, but as my real Mother, beside me.
I realized that Mary had walked this path before. She had cradled her Son through long, sleepless nights. She had rocked Him to sleep, nursed Him in the dark, wiped His spit-up from her shoulder. She had felt the same exhaustion, the same responsibility, the same maternal dedication.
It was a moment of grace I will never forget. I wasn’t alone. I wasn’t stuck. I was a daughter, being gently mothered by my Mother. It was profound.
From that night forward, I was invited into deeper relationship with Our Lady. She broke through my shallow understanding of what her motherhood meant. She called forth and awakened a deeper receptivity within my heart to her care. She showed me how to see those weary, thankless hours not as burdens but as invitations—opportunities to share in something sacred and something communal. I was invited to be with her, to do what was hard, and what was mine to do.
Conclusion: The Tension of Trust
Mary’s motherhood invites me into a paradox that I’m still learning to live: holding fear and courage, love and surrender, inspiration and intimidation all at once. Her presence doesn’t remove the hard parts of motherhood—it makes surviving them possible. She helps me see the sacred in the suffering, the grace in the giving.
There are so many moments in this vocation that demand courage. So many moments that ask for loving follow-through. And so many moments that call for a quiet openness to receive love—even when I feel like I’m failing and want to hide.
It’s hard. And it’s good. It’s daunting. And it’s beautiful. I am so grateful for the gift of Jesus’ mother. I am grateful to experience her tangible, earnest, dedicated love for me—a love that is ever-present, felt when I can be receptive enough to receive it. There’s more I hope to experience, more I long to understand. But for now, I’m grateful to know that in every moment—whether I’m terrified or tired, clinging or letting go—I have a mother who has walked this road before me.
And she’s walking with me still.