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The May’s, Bentonville, AR (2026)

05/10/2026

Mothers Day 2026
Each one gets better than the one before…

Mother’s Day always feels a little strange to make about me… because the truth is, everything I am in this role exists because of them!

I didn’t have to birth them to be their person.
To love them, show up for them, guide them, and fight for them every single day.

They are my reason.
My purpose.
The ones who have shaped me just as much as I’ve tried to shape them.

Being their mom ❗️by choice, by love, by commitment❗️is the greatest role I’ll ever have.

And that’s what today really means to me. 🤍

02/08/2026

Lately, loving Marty has looked very ordinary.

Not distant—but not dreamy either. Just steady, routine, and sometimes heavy. I went back to work. We’re walking through some hard things with our children. The days fill up quickly, and by the time night comes, there isn’t much left to give.

And sometimes,
if I’m honest,
I miss the version of us that existed when life was light. When loving each other felt effortless. When we could escape into each other without the weight of responsibility trailing behind us.
There are moments I want to get away—not to run, but to remember. To love him like we did when everything felt new and uninterrupted.

But most days take everything just to get through.

Marriage doesn’t always feel like romance. Sometimes it feels like endurance. Like standing shoulder to shoulder, both tired, both carrying things the other can’t fully see. Loving in these seasons is quiet. It’s choosing each other when there’s no extra energy to perform love beautifully.

And still, there is something sacred happening here…

We are learning how to stay connected in the middle of responsibility. How to love without escape. How to choose each other even when the days blur together and joy has to be searched for instead of stumbled upon.

I don’t know what all the years ahead will hold. But I deeply hope that when we reach the end of this life,
we’ll look back and see that staying mattered!
That choosing each other in the ordinary was everything! That the love that didn’t run, didn’t quit, didn’t require constant excitement… was the love that lasted. Forever.

Because maybe the truest romance isn’t found in the honeymoon seasons but in the quiet decision to keep choosing one another when life is demanding, unglamorous, and real!

And today, that choice is enough.

01/31/2026

Love changed for me when I stopped assuming I already knew everything..

Somewhere along the way, I realized that being married isn’t about loving someone the way I would want to be loved—it’s about learning how they receive it. And learning requires attention (which i struggle with). Presence. Humility.

I had to let go of the idea that there was one “right” way to show love. I had to loosen my grip on my perceptions, my expectations, and the quiet opinions I carried about how things should look. Because what works for me doesn’t always work for him.

So I started learning Marty. The person that I intentionally love.

I pay attention to what fills him and what drains him. I notice how he responds when he feels appreciated versus when he feels overlooked. I listen not just to his words (which i can be triggered by) but to his tone, his timing, his silence. Listening when he speaks.

Loving him well has meant observing without correcting and caring without trying to control.

There is something deeply intimate about choosing curiosity over criticism with your spouse.
Instead of assuming, let yourself be wrong on purpose!

Learning him has softened me. It has asked me to release the need to be right and embrace the desire to be connected. To trust that love doesn’t have to mirror my own to still be meaningful.

Marriage has shown me that love grows best when we stop loving from assumption and start loving from understanding!
When allow space for the person in front of us to be fully themselves.

And maybe that’s one of the quiet secrets of lasting love: not demanding to be loved the same way but being willing to learn how to love them correctly! For their benefit! ❣️

01/24/2026

No one really teaches you how to be a wife.

We talk openly about how motherhood is learned as we go, how somehow we’ll just figure it out. But marriage doesn’t come with an owner’s manual either. And if it did, maybe we’d all feel a little less unsure, a little less like we’re guessing in the dark.

Some of what we were taught—by watching, by surviving, by protecting ourselves—doesn’t always translate into what actually builds love. So marriage, for me, has been less about perfection and more about unlearning and choosing again.

Being Marty’s wife has shown me who I was made to be in love.

I am a husband’s girl.
Not because I’m blind or submissive or unaware—but because I choose honor when no one is watching. You won’t hear me tearing my husband down behind his back or making his weaknesses entertainment for others. You won’t find me being disloyal in words or actions. That kind of love has never felt like love to me.

What you will find me doing is learning him.

I learn what he needs.
I learn how he feels loved.
I pay attention to what matters to him, how he carries stress, how he softens, how he shows up for us—even in ways that look different than I might expect.

And in learning him, I’ve found something tender and sacred: when you honor your marriage, you protect your friendship. When you protect your friendship, love deepens in ways that feel steady and safe.

Marriage with Marty hasn’t been about losing myself—it’s been about becoming more intentional with my heart. Choosing respect over reaction. Loyalty over convenience. Curiosity over assumption. Again and again.

There is something deeply romantic about choosing one person and saying, I will learn you for a lifetime. Not to control or fix, but to understand. To love well. To build something that feels like home.

And maybe that’s the quiet beauty of marriage—not getting it right every time, but continuing to choose honor, growth, and each other.

01/17/2026

For the next few weeks, I’m opening a quiet, honest space here to talk about marriage. 💍

Not the polished kind.
Not the performative kind.
But the kind built in ordinary days, learned slowly, and honored intentionally.

Starting next Saturday, I’ll be sharing a weekly reflection on marriage—what it looks like to love well, to learn your spouse, to choose respect, loyalty, and friendship in the middle of real life. These words are coming straight from lived experience, prayer, and pages of my journal.

Each post will come every Saturday, and this series will gently carry us all the way to Valentine’s Day—not as a grand finale, but as a reminder that love is formed long before the flowers and cards. ❤️

This isn’t advice.
It’s reflection.
It’s honoring.
It’s an invitation to slow down and consider how we love the one we chose.

If you’re married, hopeful, healing, or simply curious about what steady love can look like, I hope you’ll join me here each week.🤍

01/14/2026

Held in the In-Between

This season of my life feels unfinished. I left the hospital I knew, the work that grounded me in women’s health, and now I find myself standing in the space between what was and what’s next.

I have a brand that reflects my heart, but it isn’t producing income yet. I feel drawn to photography, but I know the work and patience it requires. My love for women’s health still lives deep inside me, yet practical questions keep rising: Where is the need? Where is the money?

And underneath all of it is a quieter, more unsettling question—am I being pressured by the world to chase success, or am I simply without direction?

—————————————————————

There is a quiet tension many women carry in this stage of life. Loving deeply as a wife. Giving endlessly as a mother. Still longing to exist as a woman with her own breath, her own calling, her own identity beyond what she provides for others.

Some days begin already feeling heavy. Bodies tired before the work even starts. Hearts worn down by trying to be everything, everywhere, all at once. And somewhere in that swirl comes the whispered question: Where is my purpose right now? What am I supposed to be driven toward?

Faith doesn’t always answer those questions with clarity. Sometimes it answers with permission.

Permission to rest.
Permission to be unsure.
Permission to let calling unfold instead of forcing it into a timeline.

God is not asking us to prove our worth through productivity or profit. He meets us in the in-between, in the unseen moments, in the quiet obedience of staying present when the path feels blurry. Purpose doesn’t disappear just because it feels uncertain. Sometimes it’s simply being refined.

If you feel defeated, you are not failing. If you feel tired, you are not weak. And if you feel unsure of your direction, you are not behind—you may be right where trust is being formed.

Sometimes the calling in this season isn’t to rush forward or have everything figured out. It’s to remain open. To stay faithful in the waiting. To trust that purpose is still forming, even when it feels quiet and unfinished. What feels uncertain to us is not uncertain to God. He sees the full picture, even when we can only see this moment. And in that truth, we can loosen our grip, breathe a little deeper, and trust that nothing is being wasted—not the questions, not the pauses, not even the struggle.

JoyfulResilience

“The Lord will fulfill His purpose for me.”
— Psalm 138:8e

01/11/2026

“Even in loss, love speaks — and it stays with you.”

💜
A year ago today, I helped deliver a baby who was stillborn.

There’s no way to soften that sentence. No wording that makes it less heavy. It was an awful time — quiet in a way rooms aren’t meant to be quiet, full of heartbreak that sat thick in the air. The kind of sadness you don’t forget, no matter how many shifts pass or how much time goes by.

I remember the sounds.
The cries.
The prayers whispered and spoken out loud.

I remember the tears.
I remember sitting with emotions I never thought I would feel so deeply for people who were strangers just hours before. And I remember realizing, in that room, that something in me had shifted forever.

You don’t really think about death until it happens — until it’s close enough to touch, close enough to hear, close enough to feel settle into your chest.

And yet, a year later, I’m still in contact with this baby’s parents.

That may seem surprising to some, but to me it feels deeply human. Because while their story began in unimaginable loss, it didn’t end there. Their love didn’t disappear.
Their baby mattered.
Still matters.
And being allowed to remain connected to them has been one of the greatest reminders of why presence matters more than perfect words.

This wasn’t my first “loss” baby. And I know it won’t be my last.

That’s a reality many people don’t see when they think about labor and delivery. We prepare for joy, for first cries and celebrations — but we also learn how to sit in grief. How to move slowly. How to speak gently. How to honor a life that ended far too soon, without trying to explain it away.

What infant loss has taught me is this: life is unbearably fragile, and because of that, it is an incredible blessing. Every breath. Every moment. Every person we love. None of it is guaranteed — and that truth, while painful, has deepened the way I show up in the world.

I don’t carry these babies as clinical memories. I carry them as reminders. Reminders to love harder. To listen longer. To enter rooms with softness and leave them with care.

From here on out — no matter where my path leads — my hope is simple.
To bring comfort where there is pain.
To bring love where there is loss.
To honor every life, no matter how brief, by being fully present with the people who grieve them.

Some babies never come home.
But they are never forgotten.

And neither are the parents who carry them forever.

Jami May

01/05/2026

Yesterday was my last day in labor and delivery.
And since walking out of those hospital doors, I’ve found myself reflecting more than I expected — not just on the job itself, but on who I became inside those walls.

For three years, I worked in women’s health — postpartum and labor & delivery — and there’s a quiet truth I didn’t fully understand until now: there were times I connected more deeply with my patients than with my own family or even my coworkers. Not because I loved them more, but because the space demanded something different from me. It asked for presence. It asked for strength. It asked me to show up fully, even when I was already tired.

Most of the time, I wanted to be the strong person in the room. The steady one. The support person a mom or a family could lean on when everything felt uncertain. I wanted to be the calm in the chaos. And often, that required me to be stronger than I actually felt — especially when the emotional weight of the job followed me long after my shift ended.

There are births and families that will forever live in my memory. Some because they were devastating — the loss of an infant, the grief that filled the room, the kind of pain that has no solution. And others because they were magical in a quiet, sacred way. Moments where I knew I was exactly where I was supposed to be. Where I felt seen by a patient, and I knew that what I was doing mattered.

But there were also so many moments of doubt. Walking out at the end of a 12-hour shift, wondering if I did enough. Wondering what tomorrow would bring for a family whose story I wouldn’t get to finish. Carrying unanswered questions home because my shift ended, even though their lives didn’t pause.

Leadership was another heavy space to hold. Wanting to advocate. Wanting to lead with heart. And sometimes feeling surrounded by people who weren’t on the same page. Hospitals, like any business, exist to make money — and that reality can clash painfully with the human side of care. I often wished that heart was more visible, more valued. Still, I feel deeply grateful for the position I was in and for the people I was privileged to meet.

What stays with me the most are the connections that didn’t end when the hospital stay did. I still hear from patients — loss moms, adoption moms — months later. They text me updates. They send pictures. They tell me how they’re doing now. That’s why I did this work. That’s the part that made it all worth it.

In the end, it wasn’t just the 12-hour shifts or the drive to and from work that broke me. It was the constant mental load. The business side layered on top of deeply human moments. The feeling that so many needs aren’t known until someone is already in crisis — when it almost feels too late.

I don’t know exactly how yet, but I know I want to help bridge that gap. To find people where there is need — even when that need isn’t obvious. This chapter stretched me, changed me, and cracked me open in ways I’m still understanding.

I don’t know exactly what the next chapter looks like yet — but I do know this: this isn’t the end of my purpose. It’s a redirection.

Everything this work gave me — the compassion, the steadiness, the ability to sit with people in their hardest moments — still belongs to me. I’m just listening now, instead of pushing. Pausing, instead of enduring. Letting myself ask where I’m meant to serve next.

I’m not walking away from women, from families, or from the moments that shaped me. I’m carrying them forward — with intention this time. And I trust that my purpose will meet me where my heart is finally allowed to breathe.

Jami May

12/28/2025

There are days in motherhood when two emotions live together in my heart… a quiet frustration and a deep sense of honor.

I’m in one of those seasons.

I love being a safe place for my kids in life. I love being the person they come to when something doesn’t sit right, when they’re trying to make sense of feelings that feel too big for their age. And yet, some of those conversations stir things in me I don’t always expect.

Sometimes what they describe feels familiar. Not in a dramatic way — but in the subtle signs of emotional tension, confusion, or anxiety that I recognize from my own past. And when that happens, my heart feels heavy. Not because of them, but FOR them.

The frustration comes from wanting to protect at all costs!

Every instinct in me wants to say, You do not have to accept this. You do not have to carry this.
But being a steady, responsible adult means slowing down those instincts and choosing wisdom over reaction. It means offering guidance without fear, perspective without projection.

That work is quiet and often unseen.

But alongside the frustration is something sacred: the honor of being trusted.

There is nothing small about being someone’s safe place. It means they feel heard. It means they feel believed. It means they know they can bring their full selves — questions, worries, emotions — without being dismissed or minimized.

And THAT matters more than fixing anything.

I’ve learned that breaking cycles doesn’t always look like dramatic boundaries or loud decisions. Sometimes it looks like calm conversations. Sometimes it looks like modeling emotional safety. Sometimes it’s simply showing up consistently with empathy, clarity, and love.

This is how cycles change — not through control, but through connection.

I don’t need to have all the answers. I just need to keep showing what healthy love looks like. What it feels like to be respected. What it means to listen without judgment.

And if that helps create a different path — one built on trust instead of fear — then every complicated emotion is worth holding.

Because breaking cycles often begins quietly, in the spaces where safety is chosen again and again and again…

12/27/2025

🌈 My Joy in the morning 🌈

I was up early this morning, coffee in hand, gospel music playing softly in the background. I was cleaning the house — nothing special, nothing planned — just moving through the morning feeling steady and calm.

And then, without warning, I started crying.

Not because I was sad.
Not because anything was wrong.

But because I felt overwhelmingly blessed.

Everything seemed to come together all at once — not in a dramatic way, but in a quiet, holy one. The kind that catches you off guard. The kind that reminds you how close God really is.

I could have chosen a different lens for this morning.
I could have been sad that my kids aren’t here today.
I could have been frustrated that the house is still a mess.
I could have let my mind spiral into all the relationships I miss, for one reason or another.

But instead, I chose joy.

Not because life is perfect.
Not because everything is easy.

But because I’m alive. I’m breathing. My family is healthy. And through everything I’ve walked through, God has remained faithful.

Sometimes joy doesn’t look like laughter or celebration. Sometimes it looks like tears while the coffee gets cold and the music keeps playing. Sometimes it’s the sudden realization that even in the middle of loss, change, and unanswered prayers, you are still being held.

God shows up in those moments.
In the early mornings.
In the quiet house.
In the spaces where gratitude replaces resentment.

He comes through — not always how we expect, but always when we need it most.

And today, that was enough.

The May’s

05/10/2026

02/08/2026

01/31/2026

01/24/2026

01/17/2026

01/14/2026

01/11/2026

01/05/2026

12/28/2025

12/27/2025

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