I am delighted to share another beautiful submission to our Monk in the World guest post series from the community. Read on for Jessica Barrett ‘s reflection “How I Bring Contemplative Presence to My Life and Family.”
I didn’t used to be this slow. I used to rush through my mornings with a to-do list etched in my mind like scripture—feeding the baby with one hand while replying to emails with the other, brushing my teeth while bouncing a toddler on my hip, guiltily skipping breakfast in favor of coffee and deadlines. There was a time when productivity felt like a virtue and multitasking felt holy. Now, I know better. Or rather—I’ve unlearned just enough to begin listening to the quiet God again. The One who speaks in silence, breath, and the tiny pauses between words.
Bringing contemplative presence into my life and family hasn’t been some radical overnight conversion. It’s been a slow return. A remembering. A sacred undoing of urgency.
Contemplative presence, for me, isn’t about chanting ancient prayers in an empty chapel (though I love that, too). It’s about holding eye contact with my child until we both laugh. It’s about how I pour water into a pot for tea—deliberate, loving, paying attention to the steam rising like incense. It’s in the way I choose not to check my phone during breakfast, even when the itch to escape is strong. Presence is rebellion in a world that monetizes our distraction.
I used to think presence was something I had to earn—something I’d be allowed to enjoy after everything else was done. But there is no after. There is only now. And now. And now.
Some days, bringing contemplative presence into our family life looks like lighting a candle while we clean up after dinner. My kids roll their eyes when I call it our “closing liturgy,” but they still help set the mood. We sing a silly song or hum the doxology off-key. That tiny ritual, fragile and imperfect, tethers us to something sacred. The flickering flame tells me: this moment matters.
Other days, it’s breath. Just breath. In through my nose while holding my daughter’s hand on the walk to school. Out through my mouth as I watch my son dissolve into tears over a broken toy. I don’t always have wise words or patient responses. But I can breathe. I can stay. I can resist the urge to fix or flee.
Presence is hardest when I’m tired, stretched, or overwhelmed—which, let’s be honest, is often. I’ve learned to let that be part of the practice. Not something to conquer, but something to include. Contemplation isn’t about calm perfection; it’s about full-bodied awareness. It’s about showing up as I am, not as I wish I were.
Sometimes presence is ugly. It means sitting in the mess with my kids when I’d rather hide. It means staying with the ache of a hard conversation instead of numbing out with my favorite escape hatches (Instagram, carbs, performance). It means naming out loud: “I’m really overwhelmed right now. I need a pause.” And then modeling for them how to take one.
Over time, I’ve gathered little sacred anchors—things that draw me back when I drift: the wooden cross my daughter made out of popsicle sticks, a breath prayer whispered while folding laundry, the sight of the moon rising through our living room window. I scatter them throughout my day like breadcrumbs, helping me find my way home again.
I used to think contemplative life belonged to monks and mystics cloistered away from screaming toddlers and spilled Cheerios. But now I believe the kitchen is a monastery. The front porch is a chapel. The family dinner table is an altar. Every sigh, every giggle, every clumsy attempt to stay connected—it all counts. God is not far off, waiting for silence. God is here, in the noise, waiting for presence.
And presence, I’ve learned, isn’t passive. It’s fiercely active. It takes strength to remain. Courage to soften. Faith to stop striving. It is a holy discipline to let go of the illusion that I am behind or not enough or that my worth is measured by what I accomplish. Contemplative presence teaches me otherwise: that I am enough because I am, and that my being—not my doing—is the sacred ground on which my children walk and grow.
I fail at this practice more days than I’d like. I yell. I dissociate. I zone out. But presence is merciful. It always invites me back. Even in the middle of the mess.
If there’s a prayer that sums up how I try to live this contemplative presence with my family, it’s this: Let me be here for it. All of it. The wild, the mundane, the sacred, the shattered. Let me bear witness with open eyes and an open heart.
Because the truth is, life is short and holy. And I don’t want to miss it—not the tears, not the laughter, not even the long nights of nothing going right. I want to live awake. I want to love on purpose. I want to bring the whole of myself to the whole of this life.
And for me, that is what contemplative presence looks like. It’s not a destination I’ve arrived at—it’s a rhythm I return to. Again and again and again.
Jessica Barrett is a writer, theologian, and founder of Feral Petals Ministries. Blending sacred ritual, embodied faith, and poetic defiance, she creates devotional resources for mothers, mystics, and misunderstood women. Her work invites a return to holy ground through softness, spiritual rebellion, and deeply rooted contemplative presence. TheJessBarrett.com
