It’s been raining constantly since I woke up this morning. We haven’t had a day like that in a while. The sky has felt heavy and gray all day — the kind that settles in and lingers.
It made me think about February… and about you.
There’s something about this month.
The sky feels gray more often than blue. The trees are bare. The air is cold and sharp. The days are still short and the nights long.
For me, February often felt like the hardest month of homeschooling. The excitement of January fades. We’re in the thick of it — trying to finish curriculum goals, manage growing independence in our kids, keep relationships healthy, and somewhere in there, love Jesus well.
It’s easy to begin questioning:
“Is this worth it?”
“Am I doing enough?”
“Am I losing my joy?”
I’ve asked those questions more times than I can count. Even now, in a different season of motherhood, I still feel the weight of wanting to steward this calling well.
There’s a particular kind of weariness that can settle in during this time of year. It’s not dramatic or loud. It’s just… steady. A low-grade exhaustion of body and spirit. The days feel long. The fruit feels slow. The laundry still multiplies.
And if we’re not careful, the cold outside can start to mirror itself inside our hearts.
We grow more critical. More hurried. Less patient. We forget how far we’ve come. We measure ourselves against highlight reels. We quietly wonder if everyone else is doing it better.
But here’s what I know after all these years:
You were not designed to do this alone, nor were you meant to run on empty.
I didn’t fully grasp all that God was calling us to when we started Teach Them Diligently. I was homeschooling three of our kids at the time, with a toddler determined to do everything her siblings were doing. I knew God wanted us to point homeschool families to Jesus and encourage them in discipleship — but I still had so much to learn personally.
For some reason, February was always when my insecurities surfaced. I would try to change everything at once. I’d let the pressure I imposed on myself make me frantic and short-tempered with the kids — and with David. I would start worrying that I had somehow let everyone fall too far behind to ever catch back up.
We knew we were called to be parents first — and that homeschooling was never just about math lessons and reading lists. But I constantly needed to be reminded and gently brought back to what I knew was true.
I was called to teach my children diligently — to love God, love people, and prepare them for whatever He had for them.
Because homeschooling is about discipleship.
It’s about the atmosphere of your home.
It’s about shaping hearts — including your own.
And God has taught us, over and over again, that this kind of calling requires renewal.
Not once. Not occasionally. But regularly.
We cannot pour out endlessly without being poured into.
Scripture reminds us, “Let us not grow weary in doing good, for in due season we will reap, if we do not give up.” (Galatians 6:9)
February can make us feel weary. But weary is not the same as failing. Weary is not the same as fruitless. Weary simply means we are human.
Sometimes renewal begins with something very simple: remembering that you are not the only one who feels this way.
There is something deeply steadying about sitting in a room where no one is surprised by your questions. Where no one rolls their eyes at your commitment to disciple your children. Where conversations go deeper than curriculum comparisons and reach into prayer, purpose, and perseverance.
I find myself already dreaming of May — when we gather again at Teach Them Diligently in Pigeon Forge and Branson — to encourage one another.
I think about what happens when we worship together. When truth is spoken clearly and kindly. When someone names the struggle you’ve been carrying quietly and then gently points you back to Christ.
I think about the hallway conversations — the “me too” moments that make your shoulders drop just a little because you realize you’re not failing; you’re simply in the middle of a long, faithful work.
And I think about Mom’s Night.
This year, it’s going to be such a special celebration.
Not fancy for the sake of fancy. Not another obligation. But a true pause. A moment to breathe, to laugh, to be celebrated for the quiet faithfulness that no one else sees. A space where you are reminded that what you are doing matters — eternally.
I cannot wait to look out over a room filled with women who have said yes to a hard and holy calling.
I want to meet you there.
Truly.
I want to hug your neck and hear your story — how you started homeschooling, what feels heavy right now, what God has been teaching you. I want to pray with you if you need prayer. I want to rejoice with you over victories that may feel small but are anything but small in the Kingdom.
Sometimes we don’t realize how isolated we’ve become until we step back into community.
What would it give us to gather?
What would it give us to sit under biblical encouragement that strengthens not just our lesson plans but our hearts?
What would it give our children to see us investing in our own growth, prioritizing discipleship, and surrounding ourselves with wise counsel?
What would it give our marriages to step away from routine and remember the shared mission that started all of this?
I think it would give us steadiness.
Clarity.
Joy that isn’t dependent on how the week went.
When we come away intentionally, even briefly, something resets. Vision sharpens. Gratitude resurfaces. We remember that the seeds we are planting will not bloom overnight — but they are still growing.
February may feel gray.
But spring is coming.
And sometimes, the most hopeful thing we can do in winter is make plans to gather together in the spring.
Not because everything is falling apart — but because we want to remain strong.
Not because we are desperate — but because we are intentional.
Not because we have it all together — but because we know we don’t, and we are wise enough to seek renewal anyway.
If your heart feels weary tonight, I hope you’ll begin to picture it with me.
Picture yourself sitting in a session where Scripture washes over tired places.
Picture yourself at Mom’s Night, laughing freely.
Picture your family strengthened because you chose to invest in your calling.
You do not have to muscle through February alone.
You do not have to carry the weight silently.
You are seen. Your work matters. And the God who called you is faithful — He will sustain you.
I’m so looking forward to being together.
There is a place for you in that room — and I hope I get to welcome you into it.
If you’d like to join us in May, you can find all the details here
