Mamas Health Matters Most
“Be still, and know that I am God.”
—Psalm 46:10
Mothers rarely struggle with doing too little.
We struggle to stay still long enough to hear what our bodies and minds are trying to tell us. In the middle of daily demands, stillness can feel almost impossible.
Somewhere between the breakfast dishes, lesson plans, laundry piles, and the endless questions small people ask all day long, many mothers quietly lose track of their own internal health. We keep moving because that is what motherhood requires. And then, eventually, something inside begins to whisper that the pace is no longer sustainable.
My journey of learning to listen to that whisper started with something simple: realizing that not everyone rests the same way. That realization, over time, changed everything.
What I wish more people understood is how important it is to honor the way God intentionally designed each person—even when outside pressure or expectations push otherwise. This is especially true for introverts, who sometimes need permission to nourish and protect the peace they naturally carry. But it is just as true for extroverts, who can exhaust themselves trying to meet every need around them.
Mothers need to understand this perhaps more than anyone. When we understand how we are made, we begin to lead our children into recognizing their own design, too. We begin to model what it looks like to have boundaries—not rigid or harsh ones, but honest ones. And those boundaries may look different from person to person, but they still matter.
In the end, as parents, we are always modeling something. I think our children learn from us what it looks like to live as whole, grounded people—or what it looks like to slowly disappear under the weight of everything.
So, in the spirit of summertime fun time (chaos even), I find myself asking again:
What gives me rest?
What nourishes my soul?
What kind of rest actually restores me?
We are very good at doing. As Americans, we come from a culture shaped by perseverance—by pushing through, by pulling ourselves up, by moving forward no matter what. But lately, especially in light of the mental health crisis around us, I wonder if we’ve also inherited a pace that was never meant to sustain us.
As a mother, I’ve found it necessary to pay attention to my own mental health, not just for me, but for the sake of my children learning what it looks like to value theirs.
One of the first steps in that awareness has been learning how differently we are wired—often in simple terms like introvert and extrovert. It sounds small, but it has shaped so much of how I understand rest now.
No wellness strategy can override how God designed our nervous systems. And no amount of discipline can replace rest that is misaligned with how we are made.
Both introverts and extroverts are needed in very different ways within a home and a community.
Extroverts may relate to Martha's active, engaged spirit, stepping in to do what needs to be done without hesitation.
Introverts may relate to Mary’s reflective posture, one that sits, observes, reflects, and carries a quieter depth. They notice what others miss because they take time to see and to understand.
But every personality has its breaking point.
When an introvert becomes depleted, the exhaustion is often internal. Everything is internal—they process deeply, constantly. And that strength can become heavy when the mind never gets quiet. Eventually, they withdraw. And to others, it can look like they’ve disappeared.
People may assume something is wrong and try to fix it. But often, the only thing an introvert truly needs is rest—real rest that allows the mind to stop working.
That kind of rest takes intention. When introverts have been over-functioning for too long, they form mental pathways that keep them analyzing, solving, and processing everything. And so they have to gently retrain their minds to stop. From the outside, it can look unproductive. But internally, it is necessary.
Extroverts look very different when they are depleted.
Unlike introverts, when extroverts reach their limit, they don’t withdraw.
They do more.
They keep working.
They start new things.
They stay in motion.
And from the outside, it can look admirable—the steady person who keeps everything moving. But often, the motion becomes misdirected, excessive, and quietly exhausting.
The extrovert is burning out in plain sight.
Extroverts need people, yes—but they also need space where they are not needed.
They need to work without expectation.
They need companionship without demands.
They need environments where no one is asking them to solve anything.
And many times, they need to stop talking.
Extroverts often process life out loud, but constant verbal processing can keep their minds running without rest. They need forms of engagement that feel alive without requiring output.
Walking with a friend without solving.
Conversation without an agenda.
Rest that still feels like life.
While the introvert may quietly collapse inward, the extrovert collapses outward. Both are in desperate need of rest—but it will not look the same.
There is so much conversation right now about the “seven types of rest,” and while that framework is very helpful, personality still plays a defining role in what restoration actually looks like.
Knowing how we are wired helps us understand what kind of rest truly restores us.
A highly sensitive introvert is not restored through more input. She may need several days alone in a quiet space just to let her nervous system settle. Even then, rest is something she has to practice intentionally. She may keep a journal nearby just to release the thoughts her mind keeps trying to solve, reminding herself: "My brain is not available for problem-solving right now.”
She may sit by the ocean, lake, or river for hours without a phone, without a podcast, without a book—just watching, just being.
If that sounds restorative, you may be an introvert.
If that sounds like torture, you may be an extrovert.
And if a dark room, silence, and a complete sensory shutdown feel like relief, you may be highly sensitive, which comes with its own wiring.
Learning this has forced me to look at myself more honestly.
I’ve discovered that I fall into a rare combination: a highly sensitive INFJ—deeply intuitive, deeply sensitive, introverted, and structured. Considered one of the rarest Myers-Briggs personality combinations. It might explain why I’ve never fully related to a single “love language.” My husband jokes that I have all of them, and depending on how depleted I am, I think he might be right. And it might explain why I could “smell” when my infants were getting sick. Highly sensitive individuals have highly sensitive senses.
For a long time, this felt like a burden. My mind felt high-maintenance, and yet God entrusted me with five children. We homeschool, which means solitude is limited and quiet is rare.
The two things I need most—stillness and solitude—are not easily available in a home full of growing children.
And yet, in His kindness, during some of my hardest seasons of motherhood, God surrounded me with nature.
I’ve lost count of the times I’ve sat in front of the Gulf or the Pacific Ocean in Hawaii just to regulate my nervous system. My children thought the beach was for them. I no longer know how many sunset walks we took along the Gulf of Mexico after dinner just to unwind as a family. And I cannot count the quiet walks through the Louisiana woods to our “Winnie-the-Pooh tree.” These places became more than memories—they became restoration.
The places we’ve lived during my hardest seasons of motherhood will always feel like gifts.
They remind me that maybe God knew exactly what He was doing. Maybe He placed me in a home full of children so I would keep returning to Him for strength. Maybe He designed me this way so I would learn that caring for myself is not selfish—it is stewardship.
Extroverts need to learn this, too: Honoring limits is not selfish for anyone.
If you are always running and always pushing forward, you are still depleting yourself—and eventually, your home feels it.
Rest matters for everyone, regardless of personality. When we understand this, we are better able to serve our families with clarity and peace.
Introverts need rest so they do not disappear.
Extroverts need rest so they do not burn out while still moving.
And mothers need to learn this most of all.
Whether we realize it or not, the emotional climate of a home often reflects a mother’s inner health. When a mother is depleted, the home feels it. When a mother is restored, the home begins to breathe again.
Stillness is not laziness.
Stillness is stewardship.
Rest is not only for you—it is a way of honoring your health, your family’s well-being, and the lives watching you learn how to live.
