What I’m Learning About Enjoyment — Half a Year Into Motherhood

Lately I’ve been learning a lot about enjoyment.

Not the smiley, sun-drenched, “everything is perfect” kind.

But the kind that lives underneath the pulse of every day living.

That has space for real life.

The choice of enjoyment that presents itself in every moment.

That asks: Do I resist this moment, or let it be? Can I let myself be?

Waimea Canyon, Kauai

We’ve been in Kauai for a week now, and every time someone finds out that Ember is six months old, they say it:

“Ohhh… enjoy every minute.”

Sometimes with a soft ache in their voice. Sometimes with longing.

“I miss when mine were that small.”

“Just wait until she’s running around… this is the sweet spot.”

“Enjoy every minute—you’ll blink and it’s gone.”

I get where they’re coming from. There’s a kind of nostalgia in it.

Like they’re seeing something I can’t yet see—how fast it goes, how precious this window really is.

But when I’m holding space for a wave of tears, or we’ve cycled through five transitions just to get out the door, and I’m stretched thin…

The idea of “enjoying every minute” feels almost impossible.

And yet—on a hike the other day, something shifted.

It was supposed to be 50 minutes.

It ended up being six hours.

I was underslept, overstretched, and exhausted.

Not enjoying myself.

True life.

And Edmond—who was carrying Ember and still smiling—looked at me and said,

“Can you enjoy this too?”

Then:

“Come join the enjoyment party.”

At first I felt resistant.

I wanted to be done. I wanted to be somewhere else.

I didn’t want to “choose joy” or pretend it was fun.

But his words landed.

And I realized… this is what I’m learning here:

Enjoyment is not about things being easy.

It’s not about being in a good mood or loving every second.

It’s about welcoming life - as it is.

Even when I’m tired.

Even when I’m cranky.

Even when I’m not my most graceful self.

Enjoyment doesn’t mean pretending it’s all beautiful.

It just means… letting it in.

Letting myself in. To the moment. To the mess. To the magic I might not see yet.

This land of Kauai, this chapter, this family of mine—they’re teaching me something new.

To soften.

To stay.

To join the party—even if I’m arriving with sore muscles just six months post-partum, milk stains on my shirt, and emotionally intense waves rushing through me.

And maybe that’s the secret those older parents were pointing to—not that every minute is easy… but that it’s worth being there for.

All of it.