The Changing Seasons

Liesl Schiavone reflects on the changing seasons of motherhood and vocation, savoring today while trusting in God’s providence for tomorrow.

For years, I found myself repeating the same mantra when things seemed hard: This will pass. It’s just a season.

The years of diapers, milestones and long days that blurred together were part of a chapter. Over the last thirteen years of raising six kids, I’ve often sat down at the end of those days and reminded myself that I’m going to miss this: the good parts and the hard ones, too. I’ll miss the way we gather in the living room to watch the baby learn a new game, or how they all sprawl across the floor and pile on top of each other simply because they’re kids, and why not? I’ll miss the kids’ inside jokes and the laughing fits that take over the whole house.

I might even look back someday and long for the chaos of rushing out the door when no one can find their shoes, or the days someone forgets a lunchbox or a band instrument. And maybe I’ll even miss the toddler language barriers — and the nonsensical meltdowns that come when you’re sure you gave them exactly what they asked for.

What I didn’t realize at the time was that repeating "it’s just a season" wasn’t meant to rush me through it — it was meant to teach me how to hold it more gently.

Noticing the Shift

Lately I’ve felt a shift.

The “bigs” are in middle school now, slowly becoming the people they’re going to be. They’re interesting and thoughtful, committed to their interests, asking the same questions about the world that I am. My answers are no longer simplified cliches meant to calm or redirect — they’re conversations, invitations to deeper thinking, discussion, and discovery.

The “middles” are firmly planted in their upper elementary years, building habits around schedules and commitments. They’re discovering their likes and dislikes, learning what motivates them, and standing more securely in who they are.

And the “littles” are becoming more independent: still needing me, still tethered closely to home, but inching toward autonomy in small and steady ways.

What I’m learning is that seasons don’t always announce themselves with clear beginnings and endings. Sometimes it’s a slow transition, so slow you might miss it if you don’t pay attention.

A Transition I Didn’t Anticipate

I recently accepted a part-time choral position, going back to the classroom for the first time in 13 years. It wasn’t a job I was looking for, but it was an opportunity that felt a little too perfect to have come to me by chance, a “strike while the iron is hot” kind of situation. Since I accepted the job, I’ve started to consider what it might look like to taper down, and eventually close, my home music studio in the coming years.

That studio kept me home with my babies while still providing for their Catholic school education — the work shaped our daily lives, sometimes in immensely difficult ways. My work has been a blessing, but running a business from your home while raising a family is not without its challenges. The thought of closing the door on that chapter leaves me with feelings of gratitude and relief.

Discernment doesn’t always come with clarity first. Sometimes it comes as a quiet nudge, an invitation to loosen our grip and see what rises in its place.

This summer feels like that nudge. A sense that one season is fading, even as another quietly takes shape.

Not a Slow Exit

The fact is that this summer — this transition time — will not be slow or drawn out. It will be one of our busiest yet. Our home is changing too; we’re in the process of putting on an addition, making our home a little bigger to accommodate these kids that keep growing. We’ll have construction noise, dust, bedrooms moving, and a constantly changing routine. I’ll still be running my studio, handling the logistics of home, and preparing for my new position.

There will be movement everywhere, like blessed winds stirring up what was to prepare for what will be. It’s exciting, but it’s overwhelming.

Open Hands, Honest Heart

To be clear, I don’t know if my instincts about this season are accurate. That’s the thing about the Christian life — it’s one of surrender. We live in the dark, walking towards the light, unsure of the twists and turns of the road ahead. For all we know, God could have another surprise around the corner (I know better than to speak in absolutes when it comes to family and vocation). So, we remain open: to life, to God’s plan for our family, and to how I’m called to spend my time, treasure, and talents in a way that honors Him best. If I’m honest, that feels a little scary, but faith has never meant certainty; it has always meant trust, especially when clarity comes slowly.

Paying Attention While It’s Happening

So, this summer, even in the busyness, I’m choosing to pay attention.

I’m learning that wisdom doesn’t always come from hindsight, sometimes it comes from noticing a season while you’re still living inside it. It comes from resisting the urge to rush through change or cling to what’s familiar.

The fact is that seasons don’t always change with clean lines or big events. More often, they shift quietly, gradually, asking us to respond with humility instead of control.

So, I guess that the invitation — not to predict what’s next, but to live faithfully in what’s unfolding now. With open hands, an honest heart, and with trust that the God who shaped this season will be faithful in the next one, too.

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Copyright 2026 Liesl Schiavone
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