Successfully Homeschooling Children: The Blessings, the Warts, and the Sacred In-Between

January 20, 2025 | Rachel Whitmore

I’m sitting at my kitchen table in Edmond, Oklahoma, the morning light spilling across a stack of journals, a half-finished math worksheet, and a plate of pancakes the girls didn’t quite finish. My 6-year-old, Ellie, is humming a hymn we sang at Grace Creek Fellowship last Sunday, and my 9-year-old, Hannah, is sketching a horse instead of practicing her spelling words. I smile, because this is us—our rhythm, our home, our school. I’m Rachel Whitmore, a homeschooling mom to two daughters, wife to David, and a woman who’s found a sacred calling in teaching my girls at home. Homeschooling isn’t always easy, but it’s always worth it. Today, I want to share the blessings, the warts, and the quiet miracles of this journey—because if you’re considering this path, you deserve to see the whole picture.

Let’s start with the blessings, because they’re what keep me going on the hard days. The greatest gift of homeschooling is time—time to know my girls, really know them, in a way I never could if they were gone eight hours a day. I get to see Ellie’s eyes light up when she finally sounds out a new word, and I get to hear Hannah’s stories about the characters she’s inventing—tales of brave girls on Oklahoma prairies, just like the ones her granddaddy’s wheat fields stretch across. We start our mornings with pancakes and Proverbs, reading a verse and talking about what it means to be kind, brave, or honest. There’s no rush to catch a bus, no pressure to conform to someone else’s schedule. We move at the pace of grace, and that’s a blessing I don’t take for granted.

Another blessing is the way homeschooling lets us anchor our days in faith. At public school, Hannah came home with ideas that didn’t sit right with us—not because the school was bad, but because it wasn’t ours. Now, we weave God’s truth into everything. Math isn’t just numbers—it’s stewardship, counting the blessings God’s given us. History isn’t just dates—it’s His story, the way God has moved through time. Last week, we read about the Pilgrims, and Hannah asked why they were so brave. We talked about faith, about trusting God even when the world feels big and scary. Those conversations don’t happen in a pickup line—they happen over a shared table, a shared life. Homeschooling lets me plant seeds of truth in my girls’ hearts, and I believe those seeds will grow into a legacy of faith.

It’s also a blessing to tailor learning to who my girls are. Ellie’s a dreamer—she’d rather draw than add, so I let her sketch her math problems, turning subtraction into a story about ponies leaving a barn. Hannah’s curious—she loves historical fiction, so we read Little House on the Prairie and then built a pioneer cabin out of popsicle sticks. I’m not bound by a curriculum that doesn’t fit. I get to meet them where they are, to see their strengths and struggles up close. When Ellie struggled with reading, we slowed down, no pressure, just patience. Now she’s reading chapter books, and I got to be there for every step. That’s a gift—a holy privilege I wouldn’t trade.

But let’s talk about the warts, because they’re real, and I’d be lying if I said this was all sunshine and hymns. Homeschooling is hard—sometimes harder than I expected. There are days I feel like I’m failing, like I’m not enough. Last month, I spent an hour trying to explain fractions to Hannah, and she just wasn’t getting it. I got frustrated, she got teary, and Ellie started giggling at the worst possible moment. I had to step outside, take a deep breath, and pray for patience. I’m not a teacher by training—I’m a dental hygienist by trade, used to cleaning teeth, not teaching division. Some days, I wonder if I’m doing right by them, if they’d be better off with someone who knows more, who has more energy.

There’s also the isolation. I love our church community at Grace Creek Fellowship, but homeschooling can feel lonely. I don’t have a teacher’s lounge to vent in, no coworkers to swap stories with. David’s work as a real estate CEO keeps him busy, and while he’s my rock, he’s not here for the daily grind. I miss adult conversation—sometimes I catch myself talking to the tomato plants in my garden just to hear my own voice. And the girls? They miss friends some days. We do co-ops and soccer, but it’s not the same as seeing classmates every day. I worry they’ll resent me for it later, even though I know this is the path God called us to.

Another wart is the sheer weight of responsibility. I’m not just their mom—I’m their teacher, their principal, their curriculum planner. If they fall behind, it’s on me. If they miss out on something, I feel it. Last year, I forgot to teach Hannah cursive—she saw a friend writing it and asked why she didn’t know how. I felt like I’d let her down, like I’d missed a piece of her childhood. It’s a lot to carry, and some nights I lie awake, praying I’m enough, that God will fill the gaps I can’t.

But here’s the thing about the warts—they’re part of the journey, and they’ve taught me to lean on God more than ever. Homeschooling has shown me my limits, but it’s also shown me His strength. On the days I feel like I’m failing, I remember Galatians 6:9—“Let us not grow weary of doing good, for in due season we will reap, if we do not give up.” I’m not perfect, but I’m faithful. I show up, I pray, I keep going. And in the showing up, I see the miracles—the way Ellie’s giggle can turn a hard day around, the way Hannah’s questions about faith make me dig deeper into my own.

Successfully homeschooling in 2025 isn’t about having it all together. It’s about building a home where faith, love, and curiosity grow. It’s about slow mornings, shared stories, and the quiet work of raising girls who know they’re loved—by me, by their daddy, by their God. The blessings outweigh the warts, but the warts make the blessings sweeter. If you’re on this path, or thinking about it, know this: you don’t have to be perfect. You just have to be present, prayerful, and willing to let God write the story. Around our kitchen table, that’s enough—and I believe it can be enough for you too.