It happens every single year, and yet somehow it still sneaks up on me.

One minute it’s January, we’re packing lunches with fresh resolve, writing names in brand-new planners, and reminding everyone (including ourselves) that this is our year to be organized. The next minute—it’s May.

May.

How did we get here so fast?

The second half of the school year doesn’t just move quickly—it blurs. The weeks don’t pass; they collide. Calendars fill up faster than we can read them. Permission slips multiply like laundry. And suddenly, we’re standing at the edge of the finish line, completely and utterly exhausted.

Mentally, I am done.

Done packing lunches. Done checking grades. Done signing forms I barely have time to read. Done juggling meetings, concerts, practices, and every extracurricular activity under the sun. My brain feels like it has 47 tabs open, and at least 12 of them are frozen.

And just when you think you might be able to coast into summer… here comes the grand finale.

End-of-year testing.
Field Day.
Class parties.
Yearbooks.
Picture day… again (why is it always again?).
Fundraisers.
The book fair—because of course.
Teacher appreciation gifts that you want to be thoughtful but also… when do we have time to think?

It’s enough to make an exhausted mom cry in the school pickup line.

And then—just beyond all of that—summer waits.

Three kids home. All the time. Except when they’re not. Which somehow makes it more chaotic.

Constant messes.
Three meals a day at home (plus snacks… so many snacks).
A pantry that empties itself daily.
Sleep schedules that slowly unravel until no one knows what day it is.

There’s a moment—usually sometime in late May—when I look around and think, I might actually lose my mind.

And yet…

If I stop long enough—if I can quiet the noise and the rushing and the endless to-do list—I can see it.

The good that’s coming.

Late nights catching fireflies in the backyard.
Ice cream runs that turn into core memories.
Afternoons at the pool where time slows down just a little.
Picnics. Day trips. Mini hikes in the mountains. Sandy beach days with salty hair and tired, happy kids.

I can picture the laughter. The rest. The moments that don’t feel scheduled or rushed.

The smiles.

They’re coming.

We just have to get there first.

And maybe—just maybe—that’s the reminder we need in the blur.

This season is full, yes. Overfull, even. But it’s also fleeting. These concerts, these last school projects, these busy, chaotic days… they matter. They’re part of the story we’ll one day miss.

So when you’re overwhelmed (and you will be), take a breath.

Whisper a quick prayer in the car line.
“Lord, give me patience for this moment.”

When the calendar feels impossible, remember:
God is not rushed, even when we are.

When the noise is loud and the house is messy and your energy is gone—He is still present in it.

In the lunch-packing.
In the car rides.
In the chaos.

“And let us not grow weary of doing good, for in due season we will reap, if we do not give up.” (Galatians 6:9)

Friend, you are doing holy work in the middle of very ordinary, very exhausting days.

So here’s your call to action for these final weeks of school:

Don’t just survive them—see them.

Pause long enough to notice your child on stage.
Celebrate the small wins.
Write the note to the teacher.
Take the picture—even if it’s the second (or third) picture day.
Say yes to the ice cream on a random Tuesday.

And when you feel like you’re running on empty, lean into the One who never is.

The blur will pass.

Summer will come.

And by God’s grace, we’ll make it there—tired, a little frazzled, but full of stories worth telling.