This morning I stood in the kitchen holding a cup of coffee that had already gone cold once. Which, if we’re being honest, is basically the official beverage of motherhood.

The house was just starting to stir. Someone was looking for a shoe. Someone else was asking if pancakes count as breakfast if you eat them with syrup and whipped cream. The ducks were already yelling for breakfast like they were owed something.

Just a normal morning in our house.

And somewhere between reheating my coffee and trying to remember if I already fed the chicks or just thought about feeding the chicks, something crossed my mind that I’m incredibly thankful for.

I married a man who doesn’t make  me explain myself.

Not where I am.

Not who I am with.
Not why I suddenly decided we should start another project.

Not even when that project occasionally sounds suspiciously like,
“Maybe we should have a farm.”

And not the cute kind either. Apparently my version includes ducks, chickens, possibly a goat, and a garden that I am absolutely convinced I will keep alive this year.

Healthy love is quiet like that.

It doesn’t interrogate.
It doesn’t accuse.
It doesn’t make you feel like you have to defend normal parts of your life.

Instead it stands beside you.

Sometimes it laughs when you bring home ducklings unexpectedly.
Sometimes it sighs and grabs a shovel when another “great idea” requires digging holes.

But it never makes you feel small for being who you are.

And as a mom, especially a mom raising daughters, I think about that kind of love a lot.

Because when your kids grow up, you don’t just hope they fall in love.

You hope they recognize the kind of love that feels safe.

The kind that doesn’t make them shrink.
The kind that doesn’t make them nervous.
The kind that doesn’t make them feel like they’re constantly explaining themselves.

Real love is surprisingly calm.

It looks like someone trusting you.

It looks like someone cheering for your crazy ideas even if they involve turning a perfectly reasonable backyard into something that may eventually resemble a small petting zoo.

It looks like peace.

Life already has enough chaos. Trust me, I run a house full of kids, animals, projects, books, and coffee mugs that mysteriously relocate themselves throughout the day.

The right kind of love shouldn’t add more chaos.

It should be the calm place in the middle of it.

So this Sunday, between the noise of kids waking up and the ducks loudly reminding me that breakfast is late, I’m feeling grateful for that kind of love.

The quiet kind.

The steady kind.

The kind that doesn’t make you explain dinner, dreams, or crazy farm plans.

Just someone standing beside you saying,

“Go ahead. I’m right here.”

And if that farm ever actually happens…

Well.

At least I know who’ll be helping me build the fence.