Some seasons are just meant for holding on. Some seasons are meant for pushing forward. And some seasons are just for holding back.
My niece hurt her ankle recently. Nothing dramatic — just enough that she suddenly couldn’t do what she normally does. Almost overnight, she felt off. Not just bored, but thrown off.
She’s a young mom who’s used to daily movement. Exercise is how she resets and how she feels steady again. Suddenly, that outlet was gone. No movement, no release, no familiar baseline, and she started trying to grab control elsewhere.
Like a proper Jewish mother, she decided now was the best time to toilet train, to take away the pacifier, and to get everything together. It sounded productive. But watching her, I realized something important.
This shouldn’t have been a push-forward moment. It was a pull-in moment. What does that mean?
She wasn’t meant to be in do-mode. She was meant to be in recover-mode. She didn’t need a new project, she needed safety, softness, and time to pause.
I was reminded of a phrase I once heard from Rebbitzen Spetner, describing certain stretches of parenting as “no-chinuch time.” Not because values don’t matter, because this isn’t the time for teaching — it’s the season for holding.
That moment with my niece made something very clear: motherhood doesn’t ask the same thing from us in every season.
The Jewish calendar already understands this. There are times of year when the agenda is decided for us. Now we prepare for Purim, now switch to Pesach mode, then it’s Chanukah again. We don’t fight it, we rearrange our energy and our schedules accordingly. We understand that this season has a job, and we show up for it.
I’m not talking about opting out of real life. I’m suggesting something smaller.
Recognize what season you’re in. Notice when you’re stretched thin, and treat that like it matters. This isn’t lowering the bar, it’s working with what’s true right now.
Some seasons are about holding things together. These are the seasons of newborns, recovery, illness, or emotional overload. In these seasons, the job isn’t self-improvement. It’s survival. It’s keeping everyone fed, safe, and loved. When we try to push growth here by overhauling routines, fixing habits, or finally “getting organized,” it often leaves us feeling like we’re failing.
We’re not failing. We’re just asking ourselves to do the wrong kind of work.
Then there are seasons where life begins to feel more stable. Sleep improves, and there’s a little more mental space to notice what’s hard and what could be easier. These are the seasons where structure starts to make sense. Not perfection. Just small steps that make daily life feel less heavy. This is where routines start to carry you instead of the other way around.
And then, sometimes, there are seasons of building. You start to feel stronger, and more capable. You learn skills you were never taught, and you make decisions once instead of every day. Things start running without so much effort. From the outside, it can look like you’ve suddenly “figured it out.” You didn’t skip steps, you arrived here because the earlier seasons did their job.
There are also seasons that look calm on the surface but feel heavy in quieter ways. Teenagers. Emotional labor. Aging parents. Invisible responsibilities no one else sees. These seasons aren’t about growth. They ask you to show up, and not quit on yourself, even when nothing feels particularly inspiring.
The trouble starts when we compare across seasons, when we expect productivity from ourselves when we really need rest, or when we measure ourselves against someone whose life just looks different right now.
You’re not behind and you’re not doing motherhood wrong. You’re just in a different season. Ask yourself: What is this season asking of me? And respect that.
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