Before I ever set foot in a MomCo room, I didn't know how badly I needed one. MomCo is a moms' group at Flatirons Church — a place to eat a meal, talk, and be known without having to have it all together first. But getting there wasn't as simple as just showing up. Here's how I got to the other side of the fear that almost kept me away.
I remember sitting on the bathroom floor, arms wrapped around my legs, head resting on my knees. The memory of my meltdown at work kept playing over and over in my mind — what my coworkers must have seen, what they were probably saying, whether they'd look at me differently now. I couldn't make it stop.
Postpartum had been wrecking me for months, and that day it finally caught up with me. Not long after, I left that job. I thought walking away would bring relief. Instead, it brought silence — a quiet I didn't know what to do with.
Finally, I got up off that floor, because I didn't want to think about it anymore. I splashed cold water on my face, hoping it would wash the memory away too, and looked at myself in the mirror. I feel so alone. I feel like no one gets me. And I started crying all over again, asking God why this was the season He had chosen for me.
Every day felt like the same routine. Get up, make breakfast, clean up. Make lunch, clean up. Make dinner, clean up. Bedtime. Repeat.
One night I finally got everyone to sleep, and I was exhausted. I just wanted to sit for a minute and look at someone else's life for a while, so I picked up my phone and scrolled Facebook. I came across photos of friends together, laughing, leaning into each other in that easy way that told you they'd been through things together. The caption read something like I love these women and I'm so thankful they show up for me when I need them. My heart sank. I wanted that too. But was my season of silence over? Was it time to put myself back into the world? It felt so scary. I used to be the one who could make friends with anyone — so why was I suddenly so afraid?
Then one day my friend McKinnley asked if I wanted to join MomCo. My first thought was no thank you, I'm good. But the more I sat with it, the more I realized how desperately I needed a community of women to lean on when motherhood felt like too much. I heard a whisper — it was God, saying it's time, you need to go. I remember looking up at the ceiling and saying, half sarcastic, "So I guess this season of silence is over, huh?" I don't think He appreciated my tone very much, because I didn't get an answer back — which only frustrated me more.
The Morning It Was Time
The night before my first MomCo, I was already anxious. What if they don't like me? What if I talk too much? What if they think I'm weird, or too loud, or just not cool? That was the fear that scared me most. My husband kept telling me, "You'll be fine, just go and try it out." So the next morning, I get myself and my kids ready, get in the car, and start the drive. The closer I get, the bigger the fear grows, and the what-ifs get louder.
I'm sitting in the car. My oldest looks at me and says, "Why are we still sitting here? Let's go, I want to meet some new friends." I wish I had that same attitude. My hand is on the keys, ready to head home — and this time, I hear Him. Not a whisper I could argue with, just a quiet certainty settling over me: You can do this. I built this for you. I'm with you.
So I walk in. I drop off the kids, sit down, and meet my table leader, Taylor. She says hello and instantly makes me feel welcome. To my surprise, every new mom I meet, I find a connection with.
I find women who get it — women who have also cried before walking into something hard, who have also felt like the odd one out. I realize I was never the only one who was scared.
It didn't take long before I started looking forward to seeing them. I'd catch myself checking the clock, counting down the minutes until I could hop in the car and drive to MomCo, sit around that table, and feel a little more like myself each time. I started saving seats. I started texting the women from my table just to check in.
Meet the Woman Who Started It
McKinnley didn't know it that day, but she was inviting me into something she had once needed just as badly herself. So I asked McKinnley what made her bring MomCo to Flatirons Church in the first place.
For McKinnley, it started during Covid, with her first baby. "It was a time where I needed a community and my faith to survive," she says. Before she found a group of women walking alongside her, motherhood felt lonely, isolating, stressful — a little scary, if she's honest.
She saw a gap in the church itself. "In every church setting, mothers are undervalued in the sense there isn't a place for moms to connect without trying to find childcare where we know they're safe and learning," she explains. Moving MomCo to Flatirons changed that — it gave the group room to grow, gave lonely moms a place to be taught and known, and gave kids safe, fun childcare while their moms filled their cups.
But building MomCo wasn't just about filling a practical gap. It came from something deeper — a conviction she carries about how God designed us to live in the first place.
Why She's So Passionate About It
I asked McKinnley what Scripture says to her personally about the importance of community for moms, and her answer was simple: "We were never meant to do this alone!"
She's watched isolation show up in every form — moms who take an entire semester before they open up, and moms who can't stop talking because they've been alone for so long. "MomCo is a place where you come as you are, and we support you where you are," she says.
To her, the truth that God never designed motherhood to be a solo act means something practical: bringing back our "villages," supporting one another, and digging deeper into Scripture for guidance. And MomCo didn't just give her a community to lead — it gave her one to belong to. "MomCo led me back to my faith," she says. "It saved me in the beginning stages of motherhood, and it allows me to pour into other moms."
That conviction shapes what a MomCo gathering actually feels like once you walk in the door.
What Actually Happens at MomCo
I asked McKinnley what a first-time visitor could expect from a typical gathering. If you're picturing something stiff or churchy, she wants you to picture something else entirely: a warm meal you get to eat kid-free, open conversation, and — hopefully — something that hits home enough to carry with you when you leave.
The conversations go everywhere: pregnancy advice, birth stories, testimonies, struggles, and everything in between. And it's not just for moms of littles — moms in any stage are welcome.
Faith runs through all of it, but never as a gate you have to pass through first. "Our MomCo group is the front porch to learning about faith," McKinnley says, "whether you aren't a believer, have been a believer for years, or are just finding your way back to your faith."
Even knowing all of that, walking through the door the first time is still the hardest part — which is exactly why I asked McKinnley what she'd say to a mom still sitting in her car.
If You're on the Fence
Maybe you're the one with your hand on the keys right now. Too busy. Too tired. Too introverted. McKinnley's answer for you is simple: "Show up when you can, even if it's late. Show up in your pajamas, kiddos too. Show up just to take a second for yourself. Show up to just listen and be surrounded by other supportive moms."
She's seen what that first step can turn into. McKinnley told me about another mom who walked in as a first-time mother who was dealing with of severe postpartum depression. Years later, pregnant with her second baby, surrounded by the village she'd found in MomCo — she didn't face PPD the second time around.
"There is a place for every mom, every season, coming from every walk of life," McKinnley says. "Connections are waiting to be made."
After everything she'd shared, I asked McKinnley one final question — the one I most wanted to know.
The One Truth
If she could leave every mom with a single truth about why community matters, it's this:
"It can save you during any season of motherhood."
So if you're her right now — the one gripping the keys, telling yourself maybe next time, maybe when I have it a little more together — this is your sign. You are ready enough.
Because here's what nobody tells you about community: it doesn't find you when you're comfortable. It finds you when you're sitting in a parking lot shaking, asking God if you even have what it takes to walk through a door. From out there, it looks like everyone else already has it together — like you're the only one who's scared. You're not. You just can't see that from the driver's seat.
There's a Taylor in there waiting to say hello. There's a McKinnley who built the table for you before you ever walked in. And the village you've been praying for is already waiting on the other side of the door.
You cannot protect your heart by staying in the car. A closed heart is not a safe heart. It is just a lonely one.
