While It Is Yet Night

There’s a line in Proverbs that used to roll right past me, She rises while it is yet night and provides food for her household. I probably read it a dozen times without thinking much of it. Sounded poetic. Noble. Maybe even unrealistic. Who does that, really?

Now I know.

I’ve watched Cassie do it. Not once. Not symbolically. I mean literally. Night after night, I’ve seen her get up in the dark to feed our son, change him, rock him back to sleep. No spotlight. No applause. Just her, showing up. Again. And again. And again.

And it’s not just the middle-of-the-night moments. It’s the way she quietly absorbs the weight of everything. The decisions. The interruptions. The fatigue that settles into your bones after weeks of being needed every minute of every day. It’s not glamorous. It doesn’t post well. But it’s what love actually looks like.

I’ve seen her cry while holding Judah close. I’ve seen her come undone and then pull it together anyway. I’ve watched her push past empty to make sure he felt full. She keeps rising. Not because it’s easy. Not because she wants to prove anything. But because that’s what mothers do.

And while the world is out here measuring motherhood in milestones and curated photos, I’ve gotten to see the real thing up close. The hard kind. The unfiltered kind. The kind that makes you ache and grow and give more than you knew you had.

She’s the first voice Judah hears when he cries. The arms he reaches for when something feels off. She’s the constant in his chaos. The one who can tell what’s wrong just by how he breathes. The one who carries him all day, and then carries the doubt that she’s not doing enough.

But even on the days when she questions herself, I know the truth. She’s not just keeping our son alive. She’s giving him something to stand on. Stability. Comfort. Joy. A mom who’s there when it counts. A mom who rises before the rest of the world even knows there’s a need.

Cassie, thank you. For all of it. For carrying what no one sees. For being the calm in our son’s storm, and the one who keeps holding steady when I can’t. You’re not just a good mom. You’re the reason our home still breathes.

You rise while it is yet night. And your quiet strength lights up everything around you.