How I "Do It All" (And Why I Don’t)

Last weekend, my hairdresser paused, mid-snip, to stare at me through the mirror and ask, perplexed,

“How do you do it all?”

I get this question a lot. It usually happens right after they find out I homeschool four kids, tend a sprawling garden, write books, and host a podcast. I used to respond, “I don’t know,” with a laugh. Even to me, it sounds at least a little crazy.

But lately, I’ve been feeling the Holy Spirit tug at me, gently urging me to share on this topic, to invite others into the secret stillness He is teaching me. To hover midair, like a hummingbird whose wings never stop beating, and to find stillness in the perpetual motion of motherhood.

It’s not something I do perfectly (and maybe that is the simple answer to how I do it all: not well). But that is also part of the lesson that is unfolding for me in this season. That is part of what He spoke to me through writing Grow Where You’re Planted. I thought it was going to be a book about gardening. Turns out, the Lord was using it to invite me to have patience with the messiness of my soul. It is about growing in whatever space you have, but more than that, it is about letting go of perfectionism. Only if we draw on His peace first, can we progress in virtue.

And with that, I proceed to share with you the few bits and pieces that comprise my secret—if you can all it that—to “doing it all.”

1. I Don’t Use Social Media

When I first started blogging, I heeded what I now believe to be misguided advice: that I had to be on social media if I wanted anyone to read what I was writing. As it turns out, social media isn’t great for converting readers to book buying, and there are lots of other factors publishers look at when considering your “platform.” That’s not to say that a giant social media following doesn’t opens doors quickly—and lots of them. But from my perspective as a creator, it was stealing my time, peace, and attention, without giving anything back.

It took multiple attempts for my “goodbye” to stick; the steady dopamine drip has been intentionally designed to create behavioral addiction, after all. Now that I am on the other side, having broken the chains of digital enslavement, I say with zero exaggeration that I count giving up social media as among the best decisions of my life.* Detaching from that world has given me my life, peace, and presence back. Saying “no” to it has given me space to say “yes” to what matters most: prayer, my family, homeschooling, writing, gardening, and living in the present.

2. I Ask for Help

This one is harder. It’s vulnerable to admit I can’t handle everything on my own. But I’ve learned that asking for help—from my husband, from friends, from community—isn’t weakness. It’s humility.

“It takes a village” is a cliche for a reason. We were created in the image and likeness of God, who is Trinity—a communion of loving persons. Every time I open my hands to receive help, I’m reminded that my worth isn’t tied to self-sufficiency. And, often, I find that those who pitch in to help are blessed by their gift. After all, we “find ourselves in the sincere gift of self,” (a favorite quoted phrase of my favorite pope). When we try to do it all ourselves, 1. we will fail, but 2. more importantly, we may in fact be depriving others of the opportunity to answer God’s divine call to give of themselves. That favorite pope of mine also reminds us that every member of a family is called to become “a servant of the others,” (a challenging phrase when I am tempted to tell the kids that I am not their servant!) Receiving help is an act of humility intrinsic to God’s divine plan for humanity.

The desire to only ever be the one giving help? That is pride. True gift of self means all of us, offering what we have to give, yes, but also coming to one another with the fullness of vulnerability and learning to accept the concrete offering of love from one another. After all, if God is love, then refusing to accept help is refusing to accept God himself hidden in that act of love.

3. I Give God My Loaves and Fishes

Even after ditching the world’s most destructive time-suck and soliciting help from my husband and every friend’s older daughter to babysit, etc. I am still not enough. And, honestly, that is feature, not a bug.

The work of motherhood will bring you to your knees. Literally. And praise God for that.

I keep coming, time and again, to the multiplication of the loaves and fishes. God takes what we give Him, and He makes it enough.

When I think about it, five loaves of bread and and two fish actually sounds like a lot for one person’s lunch. But it’s nowhere near enough to feed a crowd. And isn’t that the story of motherhood? What we bring to the table, bountiful as it may be, just isn’t sufficient for what’s asked of us.

And yet, in John’s Gospel, Jesus says, “Apart from me, you can do nothing.” Not a little. Not not much. Nothing.

I’ve gained a deep peace by surrendering to that fact (that you, Fr. Jacques Phillipe!). Our job isn’t to be enough—it’s to offer what little we have, our own loaves and fishes, and trust Him to multiply them.

Becoming an Empty Vessel

Caryll Houselander wrote the best book I have ever read about Mary, The Reed of God. One of the many images she uses to describe Our Lady is that of an empty cup. The perfection of humanity, free from the stain of sin, is so glorious because she allows the Lord to fill her entire being. What people encounter in this living tabernacle is not the vessel herself, but God within her.

These days, when I return to the Holy Sacrament of the Eucharist, I pray to become a hollow cup, an empty vessel—so that Christ can fill me, so that His abundance can pour out into my family, my work, and my life. Recognizing that I not only can I not do it all, but I can do nothing has been a great gift, the key to surrendering my own wil, my own plans, my own pride in anything that my hands may accomplish throughout the day. If it was good, it came from Him, period. And I can rejoice in gratitude for that gift of Him showing up in my life.

“My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness,” (2 Cor. 12:9).

In other words, all He needs from me is surrender. The more we recognize our powerlessness, the more we’re able to do. Anything we’re able to do is only by His grace to begin with.

The Myth of Balance

I used to fret over trying to achieve the perfect balance between many competing priorities. But the reality is somewhat different. Balance is not a steady state; it requires constant adjustment (any my sweeping changes to our life and routine weren’t helping!) Consistent, small adjustments. Patience with myself when I fail. Being utterly unsurprised by own littleness and failings. Reaching arms up to my Father to allow Him to pick me up and kiss my boo boos once again.

Balance isn’t even really what I do. I juggle. Badly. And most of the time, “doing it all” is actually a constant practice in selectively prioritizing which ball I am going to drop this time.

And every time I drop it, 1. I hope I chose something of lesser importance in Heaven’s eyes, and 2. my failure is a gift because it sends me running back to my Maker.

Because our invitation was never to do it all. It’s about remembering time and again, that there is One who does it all. And we are not Him.

**Yes, Substack Notes counts as social media, at least in my digital rule of life, because of the biological effects it has on my nervous system. If social media works for you, great. We need missionaries in every corner of the earth. Still, I’d encourage you to create your own digital rule of life to articulate life-giving boundaries so that whatever tech is important to you will be governed by your prayerful decision, not the default settings its manufacturers give it to mine your brain for the precious commodities of your time and attention.

Slow Motherhood, Or How I Found My Way Back to What Matters

When I first started writing publicly seven years ago, I stumbled upon the trend of praying to receive a word for the year. I hoped it would be something exciting, something God would use to affirm and fuel my transition into the world of sharing my soul with readers.

Instead, I got: slow.

As usual, I was a little, ahem, slow on the uptake.

Years later, I see that that I have always been in rush, in a hurry to enter the next stage, receive the next thing.

Now, in this season of motherhood, I am finally starting to let this lesson, this discipline of slow sink in. There’s a reason “Vienna” by Billy Joel was my favorite song as a teenager, why Chardin’s “Patient Trust” won’t leave me alone, and why, when everything in my life—from homeschooling pace to the biotechnologies that I study to book publishing—seems to be accelerating at an unprecedented pace, the gentle whisper of the Lord continues to beckon me to a quieter, slower rhythm of life.

I am finally ready to listen.

Two years ago, I nearly lost the ability to mother at all. Chronic illness stripped me of my plans, my rhythms, my strength. It left me staring at the fragile edges of what I thought I could control. In the quiet that followed, I felt a new invitation—or rather, the old one—whisper back to me:

To return.

To rest.

To savor the fleeting beauty of these ordinary days.

I thought I knew what “slow” meant back then. But I’m learning now that slow isn’t stillness in the way I imagined. It’s more like the hummingbird: wings beating furiously, yet somehow hovering, motion and stillness held in tension.

That’s the vision of Slow Motherhood—not a promise of perfectly calm days, but a posture of peace inside the whirlwind. A way of noticing, of savoring, of gathering up these messy, beautiful, fleeting years while we still have time to make them.

What Is Slow Motherhood?

Slow motherhood is waffles and pancakes on Saturday mornings, sticky fingers and syrupy smiles.

It’s graham cracker castles collapsing in the backyard and late-night campouts under a sky full of stars.

It’s checking the milkweed for tiny signs of life—the fragile promise of butterfly chrysalises tucked beneath green leaves.

It’s playing in the rain, stomping through mud puddles, and baking a thunder cake while the storm rattles the windows.

It’s popcorn on the couch, family movies tangled in blankets, and jumping on the trampoline until the constellations come out.

Slow motherhood is pausing long enough to notice—the sticky kisses, the endless questions, the sacred ordinariness of it all.

It’s making memories we’ll one day ache to return to.

Slow motherhood is savoring the present moment so we can relish the good old days—while we’ve still got time to make them.

Slow motherhood is savoring the present moment so we can relish the good old days—while we’ve still got time to make them.

What You’ll Find Here

This newsletter has always been about sharing grace and raising saints, but with this shift, I want to give you something more intentional, more rooted. Here’s what you can expect:

• Prayerful Reflections: finding God in the middle of spilled Cheerios and endless laundry

• Joyful Rhythms: building gentle routines that nourish your home, your children, and your soul

• Practical Wisdom: tips, encouragement, and resources to help you savor motherhood—not just survive it

• Stories & Stillness: moments of wonder, awe, and connection, even when life feels chaotic

Slow motherhood isn’t about doing less. It’s about being more present in the life we already have.

A New Beginning

I’m so grateful you’re here. This community has been with me through many seasons—from the early days of motherhood to my first published book to now, when illness and uncertainty have rewritten my pace. This shift isn’t so much a change as it is a coming home.

Together, we’ll lean into the wild, messy, sacred gift of these ordinary days and learn to find the stillness of the hummingbird—the quiet center in the middle of motion. Here’s to savoring the “good old days”—while we’re still living them.

AMDG,

Samantha

PS Sign up at Substack to receive Slow Motherhood directly to your email inbox!

Raising Saints in a Busy World

Raising Saints in a Busy World

Parenting in today’s fast-paced world often feels like a constant battle against time and distraction. We want our children to grow in virtue, faith, and character, but the noise of modern life can make that feel impossible. Slow motherhood offers a way to create space for what really matters, helping children thrive spiritually, emotionally, and relationally.

Small, Intentional Choices Matter

Raising saints begins with simple, deliberate choices. Reading scripture together, taking quiet moments for prayer, or celebrating small family traditions are all ways to anchor your children in a life of meaning and faith. These practices don’t require perfection, just consistent attention to what nurtures hearts and souls.

Building a Home Where Faith Flourishes

Creating a home that fosters faith means looking at daily life as a series of opportunities to cultivate virtue. From bedtime prayers to intentional conversations about kindness and courage, each moment is a chance to show your children what it means to live with love and purpose.

Living Slow Motherhood in Everyday Life

Slow motherhood encourages parents to resist the pressure to rush through life. By slowing down, we create room for presence, prayer, and joy. It’s not about doing more—it’s about doing what matters most. Even small gestures, repeated consistently, have a lasting impact on the hearts of our children.

Join the Conversation

On the Slow Motherhood Substack, I share reflections, stories from my family, and practical ways to nurture a home where faith and joy thrive. Together, we explore how to slow down, nurture hearts, and raise children who understand love, virtue, and purpose.

5 Gentle Practices for Prayerful Motherhood

5 Gentle Practices for Prayerful Motherhood

Being a mother can feel overwhelming. There is always another task to check off, another obligation pulling at your attention. But creating a prayerful home doesn’t have to be complicated. Embracing slow motherhood means finding small, intentional ways to weave prayer, presence, and joy into everyday life. Here are five gentle practices that can help you nurture your family while cultivating your own heart.

1. Morning Offering

Start each day with a simple prayer offering your day to God. It doesn’t have to be long or elaborate. Even a quiet moment with a whispered intention can set the tone for a calmer, more mindful day.

2. Family Table Rituals

Use mealtimes as opportunities to connect. Share gratitude, intentions, or a small reflection together. These moments teach children to notice blessings and cultivate a habit of reflection.

3. Seasonal Rhythm

Celebrate the changing seasons with small, meaningful traditions. This could be planting flowers in the spring, lighting candles in Advent, or taking a quiet walk to notice autumn leaves. These rituals help children feel grounded and give your family a shared sense of time and purpose.

4. Mindful Pauses

Pause intentionally throughout the day. Take a moment to breathe, notice your surroundings, or pray quietly. Encourage your children to do the same. These small moments of awareness help your family slow down and savor life’s ordinary joys.

5. Evening Reflection

Close the day with a brief reflection, like the Ignatian Awareness Examen. Share something you are grateful for, something you learned, or a moment of connection. This practice encourages mindfulness, gratitude, and spiritual growth.

These practices aren’t just routines. They are simple ways to live in the rhythm of slow motherhood, creating a home where faith, joy, and love can flourish. For more ideas and reflections, join me on the Slow Motherhood Substack where I share practical encouragement for prayerful, joyful family life.

What Is Slow Motherhood? Choosing Presence Over Pressure

Motherhood was never meant to be rushed.

Somewhere along the way, we began to believe that the measure of a good mother was how much she could manage, how many plates she could keep spinning without letting one drop. We fill our calendars, cram our days, and scroll through an endless feed of other people’s lives, and still we lie awake at night feeling as though we aren’t doing enough.

But beneath the noise, there is a quieter invitation.

Slow motherhood is not about doing less for its own sake. It is about doing what matters most. It’s about creating room to breathe, to notice, to savor the beauty that is already here. It’s about trading hurry for presence, anxiety for trust, and distraction for attention.

When we choose slow motherhood, we begin to live more intentionally. We begin to ask better questions: What deserves my time and energy? Where is God calling me to be fully present? What can I release so I can focus on the things that truly matter?

In my own life, slowing down has meant anchoring my days in prayer, building family rhythms that cultivate peace, and carving out space for faith to take root and grow. A slow home is not a perfectly quiet home—there are still dishes to wash, lessons to teach, and little voices calling your name—but it is a home ordered toward the things that last.

Our children are growing up in a world that prizes speed, productivity, and constant stimulation. If we are not intentional, the pace of modern life will sweep us along with it. Slow motherhood is a deliberate resistance to that pull. It is the choice to raise our children with care, to protect the sacred space of home, and to create an environment where faith, joy, and connection can flourish.

This shift requires us to recover the value of presence. When we slow down, we notice the details—the sunlight on the kitchen table, the laughter spilling down the hallway, the sacred ordinariness of a child’s hand in ours. We begin to see that these seemingly small moments are, in fact, the moments that shape a family and form a soul.

Slow motherhood is not a formula or a set of rules. It is a posture of the heart. It is choosing depth over distraction, savoring what is right in front of us instead of racing toward the next thing. It’s how we begin to build prayerful homes, nurture joyful rhythms, and cultivate faith that carries our families through seasons of both chaos and calm.

That is why I created Slow Motherhood—a space for mothers longing to embrace a more intentional way of living and raising their children. Here, I share reflections, practices, and gentle encouragement for those who want to slow down, savor the goodness of today, and plant seeds for tomorrow.

If your heart is longing for a different way—a slower way—you are not alone. You are welcome here.

Want more tips for cultivating joyful rythms of slow motherhood? Join me at the Slow Motherhood newsletter!