After months of not having much luck finding household support (I should share those stories sometime; they’re pretty wild), we finally decided to make a significant investment in working with a well-regarded agency to help us find someone we could trust.

Someone to be in our home. Someone to help manage the mental load and take some of it on. Someone who could help free up enough mental space for me to focus on my mental health, being a good mom and wife, and growing my coaching practice. Someone who would see the vulnerable, messy, real parts of the life my husband and I are both currently drowning in.

It’s hard for me to admit just how much shame I feel about struggling to maintain my household. Logically, I know there’s no shame in it, but I feel it nevertheless.

It took me a while to be open to allowing that type of support into our home. There was the shame that I was barely getting by, the fear about the financial investment, and the exhaustion of thinking about all the work it would take to onboard someone.

Oh, and my biggest fear, whether someone who could—and would—fill this role actually existed.

I struggle with the fact that I still don’t know how to harness my ADHD, which makes many of these tasks feel insurmountable. In fairness to me, I only started learning about ADHD because I was diagnosed a few years ago in the thick of postpartum with my little one. It literally never occurred to me that I had it, even though I’m a pretty textbook case in many ways, especially on the emotional regulation side. The more I learn about the emotional side of ADHD, the more validated I feel and the more I am starting to understand my feelings and reactions to things. I will lovingly celebrate myself here for showing myself some self-compassion.

I also have to work hard not to compare myself to my mom, who, even though it was hard for her, managed to run our household very smoothly. She took care of three kids mostly herself while my dad was on call and cooked delicious homemade meals almost every night. She loved to garden and cook and was very organized.

Cooking is NOT one of my superpowers. Neither is gardening or organization, for that matter. And that’s okay. We all have our own superpowers. I’m working on honing mine and not beating myself up for what I’m not good at.

It’s a hard bar to reach — one I don’t even try to come close to. Some days I actually believe that. Other days, the shame creeps back in anyway.

A few weeks after we first connected with the agency, just as that little glimmer of hope was starting to fade, we were introduced to a candidate who seemed great.

Yup, if you’re reading between the lines, I will give you the full spoiler: She was indeed too good to be true and did not come as advertised.

We had a great Zoom interview, followed by an in-person interview. We seemed aligned across the board and talked at length about her requirements and ours. We were all on the same page, or so I thought.

I spent hours working on a contract, figuring out payroll, and setting everything up.

She had a short first day that went well. Then she returned for her second day. She even texted us on the way to our house asking if we wanted coffee.

I was starting to let out a huge sigh of relief. Maybe, just maybe, we had actually found help. But help isn’t just one thing. I didn’t need someone to simply clean or cook. I needed someone to take some of the mental load off of me, so I could actually remember how to breathe fully again.

Of course, there was still deep anxiety weighing heavily on me. I had been a ball of anxiety the last few weeks, and I tried to push it aside and attribute it to nerves and the long string of childcare and household help that hadn’t worked out. And of course, perimenopause. I can always blame that.

Sometimes I hate when my intuition is correct.

Sometimes I hate when my anxiety is correct.

On her second day, after chatting with us and confirming her hours and top task priorities, I thought all was well.

I did something I don’t often do and met up with a friend for coffee. We’d been trying to make a coffee date happen for months.

Life felt pretty good. For a few minutes at least.

While I was out, I got a text from her saying she was going outside to get a jacket from her car. Weird text, I thought, and tried not to think too much about it despite some alarm bells going off in my head. Why in the world would she text me to tell me she was grabbing a jacket from her car on a very hot day?

A little later, while my friend went to the restroom, I checked my email—a bad habit I need to break—and saw a message from the agency saying she had called them and they wanted to speak with us. (Hmm, maybe jacket was code word for secretly calling the agency.)

Those alarm bells started blaring at this point.

I texted her to check in and didn’t hear anything.

I texted my husband, who was working from home. He told me her car was no longer at our house.

She had literally just up and left without saying anything to us, including telling us to lock the door behind her. And the fact that she called the agency and told them she wasn’t returning was another gut punch. Couldn’t she have extended us that same courtesy? Or at least locked the darn door.

I think what hurts so much is that relief had been dangled in front of me. I got a tiny glimpse of what it might feel like to have help, and then it was snatched away almost as soon as I could see it.

It also stings that someone I had spent so much time with over the previous few days—someone I had worked hard to make as comfortable as possible, someone I had spoken with about the importance of transparency and communication—just walked out of my house without a word.

This happened earlier last week, when I was already feeling pretty lousy, and I’ll admit, it knocked the wind out of me.

It wasn’t only about her leaving, though that stung because of the trust I had opened myself up to place in her. It was the time and energy I had invested. The hope I had allowed myself to start to feel.

We were already overwhelmed, depleted, and struggling to manage everything with very limited energy and bandwidth. This experience took a substantial toll on the little capacity we had left.

So, I let myself have a good cry, binge some Netflix, ruminate, let my mind go wild with irrational life choices, and then be calmed down by a good therapy session (and several chapters of a racy werewolf romantasy).

During my therapy session, I realized just how often, especially lately, I invalidate my own feelings.

It’s quite ironic, actually, because I spend so much time validating my clients’ feelings.

I tell them their feelings make sense.

I tell them there’s no shame in needing help.

I tell them it’s okay not to be okay.

The thing is, I truly mean it when I say it to them.

And yet, when it comes to my own feelings, I neglect to extend myself that same love and understanding.

Their feelings are valid, yet mine are not.

I’ve noticed this pattern in myself before, but this experience brought it sharply to the forefront. It served as a huge reminder of an area where I still have so much room to grow.

I need to practice my own self-compassion as much as I share compassion with others.

I never, ever, ever, ever - repeat “ever” times a trillion - want my daughters to invalidate their own emotions. With my babies in mind, I’m even more motivated to deepen my own self-compassion practice.

Because maybe, just maybe, I don’t need to build an airtight case for why I’m allowed to be hurt.

Maybe my feelings don’t need an entire legal briefing before they’re allowed to count.

Maybe they simply count because I feel them. My feelings are also valid. Big or small.

I don’t have any real words of wisdom yet. If you have any for me, I am ALL ears.

I’m still very much in the thick of my emotions, but I know that once I sit with them and process them, I will eventually come out the other side.

I suppose one thing that came from this situation is that I finally released some of the pent-up emotions I had been carrying around.

No, I’m not trying to put a silver lining on this. This situation sucks. There’s no other way to describe it.

But I had been holding so much in, and I think this final straw allowed the tears to fall and some release to finally happen.

I have also learned more than I ever wanted to know about payroll, contracts, and California labor law, which will hopefully make onboarding our actual unicorn that much easier. (Though honestly, I still find CA tax and labor laws very confusing!)

I’ve learned some very valuable lessons, and I will do things very differently next time.

This was one of the exact situations we had hoped to avoid by working with an agency. Intellectually, of course, I know they could not have predicted this outcome. Emotionally, I still feel disappointed that one of the situations we made a significant investment to prevent happened anyway.

Part of me feels that something could have been done differently, even though I have no clue what that something could have been.

I know blaming them may not be entirely warranted, but I also can’t help how I feel right now.

And, if I’ve learned anything from this, I’m not going to push those feelings down or talk myself out of them. I’m going to allow myself to feel them while continuing to move forward. (I will, however, force myself to be polite while I work through these angry feelings.)

I keep coming back to how much of this—the searching, the interviewing, the contract, the payroll—I was the one driving.

My husband was there, but I was the one carrying most of it.

And then, when it fell apart, I somehow ended up carrying even more than before.

Setbacks, anxiety, and frustration are hard parts of life. They still suck, though. Both/And.

I keep getting up anyway.

Slowly. Painfully. Imperfectly.

But forward.

For You, and for Another Mama

If you’ve ever felt relief get dangled in front of you and then snatched away — if you know what it’s like to justify your own hurt like you’re building a legal case for it — I hope you find some comfort in this.

And if there’s someone else in your life who could use that same comfort right now, send this to her.

Related Reading

• Someone Else Made It Look Easy — on invisible labor and the mental load nobody sees until it’s gone

• Resources to Support Moms (and Dads)

A Gentle Resource

If this stirred something up for you, the shame, the exhaustion, the wondering if your feelings need a defense attorney, you’re not alone. I made my guided journal and Truth Cards for exactly this: a place to let your feelings just be. You can find them in the Your Non-Linear Journey Shop.

I was sitting by the pool after my daughter’s swim lesson when I started chatting with another dad. Just the kind of conversation parents who don’t know each other have while trying to entertain themselves as their kids splash around in the water.

“How’s swim been going?” he asked.

“It’s been a lot. Getting her here every day is really hard.” I admitted.

He nodded. “Oh, it really hasn’t been too bad for me.” Then, without missing a beat, he added, “My wife brings her most days.”

I smiled. “Well, of course it’s been easy for you.”

We both laughed.

A few minutes later, I mentioned how terrible the registration platform was.

He nodded again. “Yeah, my wife complains about it a lot, but I haven’t actually looked at it.” Then he paused. “Maybe I should look at it sometime.”

I looked at him, smiled, and said, “I think that’s a great idea.”

I remember thinking, “Well, there it is again.” I had to resist the urge to say, Thank you for making my point for me.

Not because he had said anything wrong. But because, in less than two minutes, he’d unintentionally described something that so many mothers spend years trying to explain.

Months earlier, I found myself having a completely different but eerily similar conversation with a man at an airport bar. At least, I thought it was a completely different conversation.

He was telling me about his career. The opportunities he’d had. The places he’d traveled. The life he’d built. As he talked, another story quietly emerged. His wife had stayed home with their children.

I remember saying how much his wife did to make his career possible. “She made a lot of your career possible.”

I have a feeling he thought we were going to have one of those easy, carefree airport conversations you have with strangers you’ll never see again, while drinking an overpriced drink at the bar.

Instead, we (well, more me) ended up talking about gratitude. Not just for the career. But for the person whose work made that career possible, in his case, his wife.

After chatting with the dad at the pool, it got me thinking about both of these conversations. Not because either man upset me. Neither did. It’s not a new pattern.

What stayed with me was how ordinary both conversations were. No one was arguing. No one was trying to prove a point.

Two men simply described their lives, the way they saw them. And in doing so, they revealed something neither of them meant to say.

Easy is often just a story we tell about work we never had to see.

The swim lessons felt easy because someone else figured out registration.
Someone else knew which class to sign up for.
Someone else remembered which goggles were preferred this week.
Someone else carried the mental checklist long before anyone got in the car.

The career looked effortless because someone else absorbed countless ordinary days that made extraordinary opportunities possible.

Neither man was taking credit for his wife’s work. They simply couldn’t see all of it.

Because that’s the thing about invisible work. When it’s done well, it disappears.

The registration website gets refreshed.
The right swim level gets chosen.
The goggles somehow make it into the swim bag.
The favorite snacks of the day magically appear.
The calendar somehow works.

Life keeps moving.

And after a while, everyone—including the person benefiting from it—starts to believe that’s just how life works.

As if families simply run themselves.
As if all of those tiny decisions make themselves.
As if easy arrives on its own.
It doesn’t.

Someone makes it look that way.

If you’re the one carrying that invisible list in your head, the one who knows because you have to know, I hope you hear this: You’re not imagining it.

Those little things that don’t seem worth mentioning? They’re often the very things holding everything else together.

I don’t think the answer is keeping score. I don’t think it’s making anyone the villain. Honestly, that’s something I still struggle with.

I think it starts with something much simpler.
Seeing.
Really seeing.
Seeing the registration website you’ve never opened.
The calendar you’ve never had to manage.
The appointments you didn’t have to remember because someone else already had.

Sometimes love looks like doing.
Sometimes it looks like noticing the doing.

And sometimes the clearest explanation of the mental load comes from a perfectly ordinary conversation by a swimming pool.

A dad smiles and says, “It really hasn’t been that hard.”

And every mother reading this quietly thinks the same thing. “Of course it hasn’t, because someone else has been carrying it.”

Easy is often just a story we tell about work we never had to see.

Someone Needs This Today

There’s a mom in your life carrying the invisible list right now. Send her this. Let her feel seen instead of invisible, even for just a minute.

Related Reading

• What No One Tells You About Self-Care in Motherhood

• Motherhood Didn’t Create the Wounds, It Just Found Them

Gentle Resource

If you’ve ever quietly kept score of the invisible list in your head — the swim goggles, the calendar, the snacks — you’re not imagining the weight of it. My guided journal and Truth Cards exist for exactly that: a place to put down what you’re carrying, even the parts no one else can see.

My five-and-a-half-year-old was on the floor, refusing to let me help her put on her jammies.

Full meltdown. Tears streaming down her small face, screaming at the top of her lungs.

“Why do you love S better than me?”

It was a long day. Ridiculously hot. New camp with no quiet time. Bedtime already late. Daddy was at a work dinner and not home yet. The perfect storm to completely unravel an already overtired, overly emotional five-year-old.

I knew all of that.

And it still shattered my heart in only the way your child can.

I tried to stay outwardly calm — though honestly, I wanted to lay on the floor and cry right alongside her.

How could the baby I had dreamed of for so long possibly think I love her sister more?

My frazzled, overheated brain heard her words and translated them into something even bigger: she doesn’t feel loved by me. (A topic for another day.)

I took a breath and asked her why she thought that.

“Because you yell at me more than S.” Eyes closed, tears still coming.

That answer could have been a lot worse. It still stung — just for different reasons. (I try so hard not to yell. Clearly not succeeding at that particular endeavor.)

I didn’t have a great answer. I said, “My love, I yell at everybody in this house equally. Daddy. S. The cat. I yell at the laundry. You have heard me yell at the dirty dishes. Mommy is just very loudly expressive sometimes. You know that.”

She didn’t laugh. Neither did I. She was too tired, too sad, too convinced that somehow her little sister had more of my heart than she did.

I added, “Mommy loves you so much. Mommy loves S so much. Mommy loves both of you more than anything in the world.”

And then she said something that really got me. Because apparently this conversation wasn’t quite gutting enough yet.

She said she wished she were still a baby. That she wished she hadn’t been born first.

Ouch.

Here’s the irony about her words.

When I was pregnant with S, I was terrified. Keep-me-up-at-night terrified — in addition to the millions of middle-of-the-night bathroom visits. Not about labor. Not about two under two. Not about any of the practical stuff, though, of course, all of that was there too. (Definitely in my top “to-be-terrified-about” list.)

But what I was most scared of was that I wouldn’t be able to love my new baby enough.

I was scared my heart wasn’t big enough. Because R had all of it. Every single corner. The love was so all-consuming, I genuinely couldn’t figure out how there would be room for another baby. And then I felt guilty for even thinking that.

I remember the first time I heard R’s heartbeat. I was completely smitten. I was finally going to get to be a mom. I watched her grow in my belly in the middle of a global pandemic — terrified and fiercely in love at the same time. As a geriatric mom (the not-so-endearing American medical term for women 35 and older), I had extra visits and extra tests, and I didn’t mind any of them. (Even though her dad wasn’t allowed to come to a single one. Thanks, Covid.) I jumped at every chance to hear her heartbeat or catch a glimpse of her.

When she was born — a month early, tiny, silent, wrinkly, perfect — she didn’t let us hear her voice for the first few days of her life. When we finally brought her home from the NICU, we went through three swaddles that first night because of her tiny size and her impressive ability to store an extraordinary amount of pee somewhere in that little body. She also made up for all the time she didn’t let us hear her cry. My tiny girl had strong lungs, once she decided to use them.

In my exhausted stupor, I couldn’t believe I finally got to meet her and be her mom. Even when she kept me up all night screaming her face off, refusing to latch, and making me question whether I was even capable of doing this — I knew I was the luckiest mom in the world because I got to be HER mom.

So when I found out that I was pregnant with my second, I was excited, of course. And I was terrified. Because I genuinely did not understand the math. R had more than a hundred percent of my heart. What was this new baby going to get?

I remember being at my OB appointment, maybe six months pregnant, trying to figure out how to ask him something without him thinking I was losing it — or worse, deciding I was unfit to be a mother to a second baby.

I finally just asked: “How does this work? How do you love another baby the way you love your first? Because I don’t think there’s space. What if I can’t?”

I don’t even remember exactly what he said. Something about the heart growing. Which is also what every mom told me before I had R — that your heart grows in ways that are impossible to describe. I felt his answer was too simple for how enormous the question felt. But he wasn’t wrong. He was right.

Because both of my girls are fully in there. Not split. Not divided. Both of them, completely, taking up more space than I knew I had.

The math doesn’t add up — but that’s because there’s no real way to quantify infinity. (Math experts, don’t come for me.) Mommy math has its own rules. Clearly.

Funny how a five-year-old screaming on the floor can take you all the way back to a question you were too scared to ask out loud. Motherhood is funny like that. Not ha-ha funny. The other kind. I’m sure you know what I mean.

And then that night happened.

The baby who stole my heart the first time I heard hers — the one I was so scared I couldn’t love her sister enough because of — was sobbing on the floor, convinced she’s loved less.

I can’t get over that irony. I really can’t.

I have to be honest about something else, though. Something her words made me feel an extra layer of guilt about.

I am shorter with her lately. I do raise my voice at her more. She’s five and a half, and she knows better than to randomly hit her sister or snatch whatever toy S is holding. Her meltdowns are loud and long, and they wear me down in a way that S’s don’t right now. And then she gets clingy in this almost aggressive way, and I catch myself almost instinctively pulling away — even though I know she just needs her mommy. I do my best to pull her in instead. I also notice how often I get activated by her and how my already-limited patience disappears entirely.

Hot temperatures plus her meltdowns equals one very dysregulated mom.

S is in this soft, clingy, wants-mommy-every-second phase that is so easy to pour into.

And when R was three — the age S is now — I was in the thick of postpartum. I wasn’t okay. I missed so much of that sweet little stage with R. I didn’t get to enjoy her the way I’m getting to enjoy S right now. On top of that, R only wanted daddy at that age. She was very anti-mommy. I get it — I had been so sick during my pregnancy and wasn’t fully emotionally available. It still stung then. It still stings now.

So yeah. When she cried that she wished she were still a baby, it landed somewhere complicated. Part of me wished for that too. Part of me still grieves missing that time with her.

I know she was tired. I know it was the heat and the long day and all the things. I also knew that after some sleep, she’d probably forget this whole conversation ever happened.

If only I could, too.

She has no idea that her mom once lay awake pregnant, scared she wouldn’t have enough room to love her little sister. That R herself had taken up so much of my heart, I couldn’t imagine making more. That R still takes up that much space — and S does too. My love for R never shrank. It grew. And it made room.

She was always the whole heart.

She still is.

They both are.

Somehow. In that completely illogical, completely real way that motherhood works.

And if any of this is weighing heavily on you right now — whether you’re in the fear, the guilt, the overwhelming love, or somewhere in between — I want you to know something, something that I wish I heard more.

If you’re pregnant with your second and carrying that fear — will I have enough love for this baby, is it fair to my first, how does this even work — the heart grows. It really does. In ways that don’t make logical sense and don’t need to.

And if you’re on the other side, carrying guilt about how differently you show up for each kid on any given day — that’s not evidence that you love them unequally. That’s just motherhood being complicated and real and human. It also shows how much you care and how deeply you love.

You’re not failing. You’re feeling.

If a specific mom popped into your head while you were reading this, that’s not a coincidence. Send this piece to her. Sometimes the most powerful thing we can do for each other is say I was thinking of you — and then actually show up.

If you’re new here, you’re welcome here. I hope you’ll stay.

Related Reading

• Grieving the Life that Was Loving the Life that Is (Part 1)

• Loving the Life that Is Grieving the Life that Was (Part 2)

• Confessions of a New Mom: The Grief and Joy of Birth

A Gentle Resource

If you’re looking for a place to process the hard, beautiful, complicated stuff, my guided journal for moms — You’re Not Failing, You’re Feeling — was made for exactly this. You can find it in the Your Non-Linear Journey Shop.

Every night before I go to sleep, I walk past both of my daughters’ rooms. And every time I get up to pee in the middle of the night, which, let’s be honest, is often, I do it again. I still check the monitor for my three-and-a-half-year-old. I hold my breath every time I hear one of them cough until I hear them breathe again. I stare into the monitor, making sure I can see her little chest rise and fall. I sometimes get up to go to my older daughter’s doorway to make sure I can see her breathing, too.

Nobody warned me about this part of motherhood.

Not the books. Not the friends who had kids before me. Not the pediatrician. Not a single person pulled me aside and said: by the way, once you become a mother, despite your entire world changing, your emotions and fears are going to fundamentally change too. The way you view everything will be different. Not just busier. Not just louder. Different. Like someone quietly recalibrated what matters, what hurts, and what keeps you staring at the ceiling at 2 am, convinced you heard something.

I used to be a night owl, staying up late and sleeping as late as I could the next day. I knew how to function on minimal sleep. I mean, I lived in China for five years, working and partying hard. I survived grad school and writing all five of my final papers in a week. But back then, I was the one keeping myself up — my own choices, my own chaos, my own fault. There is something categorically different about being woken by a tiny human who has an almost supernatural ability to sense the exact moment you finally surrender to unconsciousness.

But the lost sleep I expected. Sort of.

What I didn’t expect was how motherhood would change what terrifies me. In addition to tiny humans waking me up, new fears and anxieties would also plague and hijack my sleep.

I can’t write out my deepest fear. I’ve tried, actually. Every time I get close to the words, something in my chest seizes, and I have to stop. I know what the fear is. I just can’t say it directly. I suppose I won’t force myself to either.

Having recently witnessed another mom have to grapple with my deepest fear realized sends painful shockwaves to my heart. I feel sick with empathy for a heartbreak I cannot begin to fathom. A heartbreak I don’t want to ever have to fathom. Every time I think of that mom, I am barely able to breathe.

I’m a trained grief counselor. I have sat with people in their most devastating moments. I understand loss intimately — I lost my own father when I was twenty-four, the day after my birthday.

And I still don’t know if I could survive that.

I know I would have to. Just like she has to. But knowing that doesn’t touch the fear.

I grew up watching Law & Order: Special Victims Unit (SVU). I feel as if I grew up with Benson and Stabler. My dad could never watch it. He’d either leave the room or bury his head in a newspaper when he wanted to keep me company. I used to think he was being dramatic.

I was wrong.

From the moment I found out I was pregnant with my first daughter, I couldn’t watch that show anymore. SVU is a show about violence against women and children, and suddenly those weren’t characters. They were possibilities. Scenarios my brain had previously filed under fiction got quietly moved to a different folder entirely.

I became my father. And I finally completely understood why.

I’m scared of teenagers with guns. The number of shootings makes me want to throw up. I’m scared of antisemites. I’m scared of people so filled with hate that they could - and do - harm a child.

Every time I take my girls to a Jewish event, I find myself scanning the room. Counting exits. Clocking the security. Figuring out how I would protect my child in the case of an attack. Wondering how I can raise them with Jewish pride without also handing them a fear complex they’ll carry forever. (That one deserves its own essay. I’ll get there.)

I worry my girls will be left out. I worry I don’t read to them enough, and somehow it will be my fault if they struggle academically. I worry that my hard days — the anxious ones, the depleted ones, the ones where I’m running on fumes and snapping at everyone — are landing on them in ways I can’t see yet.

This is the motherhood nobody puts on the box.

Not the cute stuff. Not even the hard stuff everyone sort of prepares you for. The specific, particular terror of loving two small humans so completely that the entire world starts to feel like a different place. More beautiful, yes. But also more fragile. More dangerous. More real in a way that makes your chest tight just sitting here typing about it.

A few weeks ago, I dropped my daughter off at camp.

Objectively, nothing happened. A counselor showed her where to put her backpack. She stood alone for a moment, looking uncertain. Another kid wanted to go play with someone else. That’s it.

And I stood in that parking lot completely unable to leave. Peering through the window like a woman waiting for a verdict. (In many ways, I was.)

Because I wasn’t just watching my daughter navigate her first day.

I was also watching for every possible way she could get hurt.

I was watching the day camp version of me, terrified she wouldn’t be able to make a friend. I was watching the sleep-away camp version of me, so homesick she cried herself to sleep almost every night. I was watching the version of me who got on a plane to China, knowing no one and speaking no Mandarin, wondering how she would survive the year.

I was watching every version of myself who wasn’t sure she belonged. I somehow forgot to keep watching the versions of me that flourished — that made lifelong friendships, learned Mandarin, and came into her own. Standing in that parking lot, my brain could only remember the fear and the anxiety.

Motherhood does that. It finds every tender place you’ve ever carried and taps on its shoulder, sometimes slugging it in the face. It doesn’t create the wounds. It just finds them. And holds them up to the light.

I drove home and couldn’t quite bring myself to get anything productive done. Part of me was still standing in the parking lot peering through that window, unsure what to do with myself. I put on my werewolf romantasy audiobook and disappeared for a while — even though, as a coach, I have so many tools at my disposal. Sometimes you just need the werewolf romances.

I’ve been thinking a lot about what healing actually looks like inside all of this.

For a long time, I thought it meant getting rid of the old wounds. Getting over the old fears. Arriving at some version of motherhood that didn’t crack me open quite so regularly.

Now I think healing looks like recognizing them when they show up. Naming what got tapped. Asking: which younger version of me is asking to be seen right now? And then — and this is the part I’m still learning — offering her something other than criticism. Offering her something other than banishment to the deepest crevices of my heart.

I’m still in the middle of this. I don’t have a tidy ending for you.

What I have is this: a deeper understanding of my dad, a werewolf romantasy audiobook I’m not ashamed of, and two little girls whose first days of anything will probably undo me for the rest of my life. I also know that the fear will never go away and that I cannot let it consume me completely.

And maybe that’s enough. Maybe being undone by the people you love most isn’t something to fix. Maybe it’s just something to feel — and then get up and walk past their rooms one more time.

I’d Love to Hear From You

How has motherhood changed what scares you? Is there a fear you carry now that you never could have imagined before? Drop it in the comments or send me a DM on Substack. I promise you're not alone in it, and I genuinely want to know what yours is.

Related Reading

• What No One Tells You About Self-Care in Motherhood

• Words Create Worlds - Matrescence

• Your Child isn’t the Only One Growing

A Gentle Resource

If this brought something up — a fear that doesn’t have a name yet, a wound that’s been quietly waiting — you’re not alone in that either. I wrote my guided journal, You’re Not Failing, You’re Feeling, as a place to put all of it. The things that are hard to say out loud. The feelings that live somewhere between your chest and the ceiling at 2 am. You can find it in the Your Non-Linear Journey Shop.

I dropped my 5-year-old daughter off at camp for the first time and then stood in the parking lot like a total creeper.

I wish I were exaggerating.

I lingered. I watched. I debated whether I should leave. I debated whether I should stay. I debated whether I should walk back over and wrap my arms around her.

And all the while, I kept telling myself the same thing:

Go home, Ilana. Get out of the parking lot. Go have some coffee and breathe. Or at least just stop loitering in the parking lot waiting for every mom you know to provide a detailed report on your daughter’s whereabouts and emotional state.

The thing is, I wasn’t just dropping my daughter off at camp.

I was dropping off my heart.

Motherhood is funny that way.

Some days, my kids are yelling, fighting, pulling out chunks of each other’s hair, making requests every 26 seconds, and testing every ounce of patience I have. On those days, I count down until bedtime.

And then the second they’re gone, I miss them, and I find myself scrolling through pictures of them or studying the monitor to make sure I can see their chest rise and fall.

I worry about them.
I wonder if they’re okay.
I feel like a piece of me is missing.

On her first day of camp, my husband and I dropped her off together. She had a wonderful day. She came home smiling and happy.

Day two hit harder.

(Though truth be told, I was a bundle of nerves on day one too, but I didn’t want to project my anxiety onto her, and I had my husband with me, who is not one to linger in a parking lot.)

Most likely, day two hit harder because I was solo and had more space to think and linger.

Or maybe it was because that morning I watched her standing alone in the gym.

A counselor had kindly taken her by the hand and shown her where to put her backpack. Then the counselor walked away.

And there stood my five-year-old.
Confused.
Unsure.
Trying to figure out where she belonged.

I stood frozen, watching her back, not knowing if I should run to her.
Do I go help her?
Do I trust the counselors, who look approximately twelve years old?
Do I leave?
Do I stay?

I couldn’t seem to move.

Eventually, the counselor looked back, noticed my daughter still standing there, and walked her into the room to color with the other kids.

She did see me when she turned around, and luckily, she didn’t run to me. I smiled at her, and she sort of half-smiled back.

Only then did I feel like I could breathe.

And yet I still didn’t leave.
I lingered.
I watched through the window.
I looked for signs that she was okay.

Then I ran into another parent. And another.

If I’m being honest, I was probably hoping someone would tell me they’d seen my girl smiling.

One mom did. She told me my daughter was happily coloring with some of the older kindergarten boys.

It felt absurd how relieved I was by that tiny tidbit of information. (And then thought why is she with the older boys and not her friends from her class? But I quickly stopped that line of thinking from spiraling further out of control. She was happy and coloring. Full stop, ruminating mom brain.)

Another parent shared a story about her child who had a really hard first day and only agreed to come back because a friend called.

Another mom shared how when she brought her child into the room where my daughter was, her child wanted to go into a different room to find a friend. She asked my daughter if she wanted to come too, but she declined.

None of these moments had anything directly to do with my daughter.

And yet every single one landed somewhere inside me.

Because if I’m honest, I wasn’t just worrying about camp.

I was worrying about belonging.
Would she make friends?
Would she feel included?
Would she have fun?
Would she choose someone?
Would someone choose her?

And beneath all of that was an even older question:Would I?
Flashbacks to my first day of camp came crashing into my mind and heart.

Because some questions don’t stay in childhood.
They just get quieter. Until something—a camp drop-off, a playground, a birthday party—brings them rushing back to the surface.

As parents, we like to believe we’re worried about our children.
Sometimes we are. Oftentimes, we are.
And sometimes our children unknowingly bump into old bruises we forgot we were still carrying.

Standing in that parking lot, I wasn’t just thinking about my daughter.
I was thinking about being in fifth grade and being chosen last.
I was thinking about feeling left out.
I was thinking about a period in my life when I desperately wanted to belong to one group, only to discover later that they weren’t my people at all.
I was thinking about how painful it can feel when a door doesn’t open.
And, I was also thinking about how many times I have truly felt grateful for some of the places and people those closed doors eventually led me to.

It’s funny how the mind works.

I can remember being chosen last decades later.
I can still feel it.
Yet I can barely remember anything else about that particular class.

One hard moment somehow outweighs hundreds of ordinary and good ones.
Our brains do that.
They cling to the painful memories and quietly forget the rest.

By the time I got home, I was completely overwhelmed.
And here’s the part where I wish I could tell you I practiced what I preach.
I wish I could tell you I journaled.
I wish I could tell you I regulated my nervous system.
I wish I could tell you I asked myself better questions.

I didn’t.
I tried.
But I couldn’t access that part of me.

Instead, I laid on the couch, listened to a werewolf romantasy audiobook, scrolled my phone, and checked out for a while.

My brain had short-circuited.
I knew the tools.
I teach the tools.
And I couldn’t reach them.
I was absolutely beating myself up for that.

But a few hours later, I was able to see it differently. That morning wasn’t just about camp.

It was about loving my child so fiercely that every uncertainty feels personal.
It was about trusting strangers with something precious, my heart.
It was about wanting her to be physically safe and emotionally safe.
It was about wanting her to have fun, make friends, and feel included.
It was about remembering what it felt like not to AND reminding myself to remember what it felt like to have fun, make new friends, and feel included.

Every drop-off.
Every transition.
Every new experience.
Every worry.
Every moment we have to step back and let them figure something out without us.
It asks us to revisit pieces of ourselves we thought we’d long outgrown.

The truth is, I don’t want to prevent my daughter from ever experiencing disappointment.

I don’t want to rescue her from every hard feeling. (Though that is certainly my first impulse to want to protect her from everything and anything).

I want her to learn that she can survive them.

And maybe I need that reminder, too.

Maybe the goal isn’t making sure our children never feel left out.
Maybe the goal is helping them trust that one moment doesn’t define them.

One room doesn’t define them.
One friendship doesn’t define them.
One hard day doesn’t define them.
And if a room isn’t right for them, there are other rooms.
Other people.
Other friendships.
Other places where they will belong.

That’s what I would tell my daughter.

And if I’m being honest, it’s what I would tell my younger self, too. It’s a reminder I also need to give my current and future self.

So next time I find myself standing in the parking lot conducting a full sociological study of the playground, I will remind myself that there isn’t a social problem to solve.

Sometimes there’s just a vulnerable mom standing in a parking lot trying to protect her child from every possible future hurt.

And sometimes the bravest thing we can do is get in the car and go home.

When I picked her up, she was happy.
Not ecstatic.
Not transformed.
Just happy.
She told me she didn’t want to go back the next day.
And then she went anyway. And the day after that, too.

The same little girl I spent all morning worrying about.
The same little girl I wanted to rescue from uncertainty.
The same little girl who, it turns out, was already doing exactly what I hope she’ll learn to do:

Feel scared.
Feel unsure.

And keep going.

—

I’d love to hear from you: Has parenting ever brought up an old wound, memory, or insecurity you thought you’d moved past?

(And if you’ve ever conducted your own unofficial sociological study of the playground from a parking lot, solidarity.)

—

Related Reading

If this season of letting go, growing up, and watching your children spread their wings feels tender, you might also enjoy:

• Your Child isn’t the Only One Growing — where I explore what camp drop-off brought up for me as a mom.

A Gentle Resource

If this piece stirred something in you, you’re not alone.

The Guided Journal, Truth Cards, and other resources I create are designed for moments exactly like these—the moments when motherhood brings up old stories, big feelings, and parts of ourselves we didn’t expect to revisit.

You can explore them in the Your Non-Linear Journey Shop.

There’s a version of motherhood we see on Instagram—snuggles, milestones, matching outfits, messy kitchens that are somehow still aesthetic.

And then there’s the version most of us are actually living.

The one filled with love and loss. Gratitude and grief. Moments of joy woven into hours of overstimulation, loneliness, and longing for the person we used to be.

That’s what this conversation is about.

Recently, I partnered with Auggie to host a live event called “You’re Not Failing, You’re Feeling: Motherhood’s Quiet Grief.” It was honest. Tender. Emotional. And it felt like a collective exhale for everyone who joined.

Because the grief that comes with motherhood isn’t talked about enough.
We lose things no one prepares us for—freedom, identity, spontaneity, connection, our pre-motherhood selves.
And then we carry that loss quietly, thinking we’re the only ones feeling it.

But you’re not the only one.
And you’re not broken.

If this speaks to you, I wrote more about it in my guided journal:
“You’re Not Failing, You’re Feeling: a guided journal for theups and downs of motherhood.”
It’s for the moms who look like they have it together but feel like they’re falling apart inside.
It’s for you, if you’re reading this and nodding quietly.

Grab your copy here.

And if something in this stirred something in you—if you’re looking for a little extra support or just someone to walk with you through this—I’m here.

You don’t have to do this alone.

2025 did not go according to plan.

• My kids were sick—relentlessly. We got to know the urgent care doctors a little too well. My youngest had surgery.

• I navigated my own mental and physical health spiral, including learning how to work with a very late ADHD diagnosis instead of fighting against it.

• I didn’t lose the baby weight I worked so hard to.

• My business growth and impact were smaller than I hoped.

• My husband’s job imploded, then exploded, and we were left bracing for impact.

No one but me would’ve blamed me for hiding.
For throwing in the towel.
For saying, “Not this year.”

But I didn’t.

Because deep down, my very stubborn heart knew: I wasn’t here just to survive this year.
I’m here to become—to rise, to ask for help, to receive it, fall again, and keep going, as many times as it takes.
To try and try again, until something real emerges.
After all, my young daughters are watching and soaking it all in.

Here’s what I chose instead:

• I led incredible mamas through my brand new coaching program—and made it even more powerful. I also discontinued a program that no longer aligned and created a new coaching program that does.

• I invested in a naturopath and began reclaiming my energy and vitality.

• I sought out business and personal support—some of it helped, some of it didn’t—and I kept going, committed to finding what actually supports me.

• I began releasing relationships and thought patterns that had been quietly poisoning my mind and heart.

• I forgave myself for shrinking in spaces that didn’t feel safe and for letting other people’s emotions infiltrate my own.

• I stopped chasing outcomes and am focused on reconnecting to what my soul actually came here to do.

• I realized I’ve accomplished so much more than I’ve allowed myself to acknowledge - and it’s time I start celebrating the wins I used to overlook.

And just as important—I finally said yes and took imperfect action to a vision I’ve been carrying in my heart for years:

🃏 I created a 42-card inspirational deck for moms—it’s here, and it’s everything I dreamed it would be. Launching soon.

🖋️ I created a guided journal all about validating emotions in motherhood—currently in its first round of edits. Launching soon.

📓 I’m writing a book—expected release: Mother’s Day 2026.

This isn’t just a creative pivot. These aren’t just projects.

This is a sacred beginning—my sacred beginning.
A reclamation of my power.
A long-overdue follow-through on what my heart has been screaming for.
I’m building something real, meaningful, and profound.

Not just for me, but for every mother who’s been whispering her truth under her breath—too tired, too unsure, or too scared to speak it out loud.

These aren’t content pieces.
They are medicine.
Medicine for my own soul.
Medicine for the soul of every mother who needs to know she’s not crazy, not broken, and definitely not alone.

For the moms ready to come back to their truth, their worth, and their voice.
For the women transforming through motherhood, not just surviving it.
For those finally meeting the new self that motherhood has been quietly shaping all along.
For the ones who are done bypassing their emotions and ready to honor every sacred, messy part of the journey.

This year didn’t delay me.
It refined me.
It stripped away what no longer fits.
It made me face the doubt still living deep within me.

It asked me:
What do you really want to say?
How do you really want to show up?
Who do you really want to become?

I used to think I was behind. (Truth be told, that thought still lingers, but no longer gets to run the show.)
Now I know: I’m not behind.
I’m becoming.
I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.

Shedding. Rebuilding. At my own pace. In my own time.

If you’re a mom who’s been holding her breath all year—I see you.
I am with you.
You’re not alone.

Your feelings are valid.
Your story is worthy.
Your voice matters.

And I’m walking into 2026 louder, clearer, and more unapologetically than ever.

Let’s rise—together.

I help mothers remember their truth, reclaim their voice, and honor every layer of who they’re becoming—through healing tools, soul-led coaching, and honest conversation.

If this spoke to you and you want to be the first to know when my card deck, journal, and offerings are released, join the waitlist here: https://pages.nonlinearjourney.com/waitlist-guide-for-moms

I’m a slow and steady runner. Emphasis on slow. My “fastest” by running standards is still considered slow. And I say that without an ounce of shame. In fact, I often laugh when someone tells me they’re a slow runner. I always ask, “What does slow mean to you?” Because, like most things in life, we all define things differently.

Let me be clear—when I say “slow,” I don’t mean it as a bad thing. It merely is.

(Same conversation I have about grief: it’s not bad, it’s just real. It’s okay to feel bad about something. It’s okay to grieve. And it’s absolutely okay to run a 15-minute mile.)

Now, at almost 3 years postpartum, I find myself wanting to get back into running. I love running. It hurts so good. It clears my head, helps me think, and gives me a deep, satisfying sense of satisfaction. It also helps me feel connected to my father.

About a year ago—one year postpartum with my second—I returned to OrangeTheory, something I loved in my pre-child life. I tried going back about 9 months after my first was born, but my body wasn’t ready.

My pelvic floor ached. (I had no idea what a pelvic floor was before kids. Now, I am intimately aware of it. Much like I had no idea where my appendix was until it decided to malfunction and start to explode. I don’t miss my appendix. I do miss not thinking about my pelvic floor.)

I’m also one of those people who go from 0 to 100 very quickly. Results vary. Sometimes I pull it off— though often at a great cost. Other times, I crash and burn, or get so overwhelmed that I become laser-focused on winning Dr. Mario World. (In case you are wondering, yes, I did beat the game. A whole month before it was discontinued. First and only game I have ever beaten. Not sure if I am bragging or confessing. Both, perhaps.)

When I get an idea, I want to run with it—fast. It is an impulse - I learned later in life - that is very common with ADHD. I found out that I had ADHD at 41, right in the throes of postpartum round two. (But, that’s a story for another day).

Let’s stick to running today…

Every time I get back into running, I promise I’ll pace myself and build my base slowly. And yet… I push too hard, too fast. I can’t even tell you how many injuries I have had: stress fractures, broken bones, pulled hip flexors. And almost every time, I push it, and have to start over.

It took me three tries—three years and multiple injuries—just to make it to the starting line of the NYC Marathon. But I did it.

And now, years later, what really stands out to me is how the goal kept changing—run a certain pace, hit a specific time, just finish.

It’s hard to feel true satisfaction when the goalpost keeps moving. There’s always something more to strive for, some new version of “enough.”

Motherhood mirrors that in so many ways—just when you think you’ve found your footing, something shifts, or you discover yet another way you could be doing it.

I remember hitting mile 26 of the marathon—just .2 to go—and my first thoughts were, “Holy (insert excited profanity here), this is the longest I have ever run in my life! I need to remember to put my name in the lottery to run next year.”

SERIOUSLY.

Luckily, by the time I crossed the finish line, every single part of my body was in so much pain that I literally didn’t have the brain power to think of much other than getting to my best friend’s mom’s apartment, drinking pickle juice, and celebrating with people I love.

Celebrate, I did. I reveled. I made it not just to the start line, but to the finish line.

To this day, it remains one of my proudest accomplishments. And sometimes, I catch myself minimizing it—telling myself I’m not a “real” runner, or that I only ran one marathon. Then I remind myself: I am a marathoner. Full stop.

By my third try, my only goal was to finish. I would have crawled on my elbows if I had to. I didn’t really care how long it took me, as long as I finished before they shut down the course and opened the City back up. I wasn’t last in my age group. I finished before the course was shut down and did not need to be escorted by the NYPD (though that would have been a cool story).

I started when the sun was rising. I finished as the sky darkened. It was one of the hardest, best 5 hours, 44 minutes, and 44 seconds of my life. I cherish that medal. Yes, the three days that it took me to walk normally again were totally worth it.

A few days after the marathon, a friend of the guy I was dating made a snide comment about how “slow” I ran. I can’t remember his exact words (or his name, for that matter), but I remember the moment. I rolled my eyes. And yes, I’m still talking about it, so clearly it left a mark. But honestly? I didn’t care what he—or anyone—thought about my time. I said I was going to run it, and I did. I’m still beaming as I write this.

So much of this is relatable to motherhood.

As mothers, we do some things. We don’t do others.

Some of us sign up for the marathon - the swim lessons, dancing lessons, soccer, basketball, PTA, all the extras. Some of us don’t.

You need to be a marathoner to be a good runner. You don’t even need to be a good runner to be a marathoner. And you don’t need to sign your kid up for every activity to be a good mother.

Do what feels right for you and your family in the season that you are in. If that’s every extracurricular under the sun—amazing. Go for it. (Tell me your secret, please!!)

For my family, in this particular season, we’re choosing none. My husband and I are maxxed out - stress levels are sky-high, and we’re just trying to keep our heads above water.

Sometimes I feel guilty. That little ‘should’ voice creeps in: I should sign my girls up for gymnastics, soccer, and art. Totally valid. AND, I’m practicing letting go of the guilting shoulds—whether it’s self-imposed or societal.

Instead, I’m focusing on trying to be present with my girls. Making sure they feel deeply loved - granted messily and imperfectly, but fully and unconditionally.

Some moms seem to get the hang of this whole motherhood thing pretty quickly. Others, like me, are a tad slower. Totally okay. No judgment.

I’ve been changing diapers for almost five years, and I still can’t do it with my kid standing up—or if her head is on the wrong side. It’s okay, I’m doing other things well. However, I’ll never win a diaper-changing contest (I’m okay with that), and I’m very ready to be done with diapers.

The medal - whatever you want to call it - looks different for all of us.

The journey does, too.

Motherhood looks different for all of us.

I still proudly look at my marathon medal. I’ve attached my late father’s physician ID tag to it. That medal signifies so much for me and reminds me what I’m capable of—physically and emotionally.

I also proudly look at my two beautiful, sassy daughters. Watching who they are becoming reminds me again: I am capable.

Motherhood is a marathon without a finish line. It’s ongoing. And just like a marathon, we need to remember to pace ourselves. Stay steady. Hydrate often. Eat occasionally. Rest when possible. Otherwise, we hit the wall.

So when it all feels like too much, it’s good to return to the basics:

• Are you hydrated?

• Have you eaten recently? (Breastfeeding nursing pumping mamas, I’m especially talking to you!)

• Are you breathing? (Yes, I mean intentionally - we sometimes don’t even realize when we are holding our breath).

• Have you gone to the bathroom recently?

• Have you slept more than 2 hours in a row?

Start there. Return there often.

Start slow. Restart as many times as you need. NO judgment.

You’re still running. You’re still doing the mama thing.

And, no matter how and when you finish, you still get the medal.

Self-Care in Motherhood: Why it Matters

Motherhood is a beautiful contradiction—messy and magical, life-giving and completely consuming. It involves giving, holding, managing, supporting, and navigating countless transitions—all while often being told (explicitly or implicitly) that your own needs should come last (especially if you want to be considered a so-called “good mother”).

But what we don’t talk about enough is how much it asks of us, how much it takes from our bodies, minds, and hearts, and how invisible that labor can feel. In the midst of tending to everyone else, it’s so easy to forget that you matter too—that your needs, your rest, your dreams, and your well-being deserve care and attention.

This is where self-care comes in. Not as an indulgence or something “extra,” but as a lifeline. A gentle, loving way of protecting your energy, nurturing your spirit, and reminding yourself: you are a mother AND so much more. Just as you believe your baby deserves all the best that the world has to offer, you too, my dear mama, deserve the same. (I remind myself of this often, too).

Taking care of yourself matters. Deeply. Let’s unpack why.

You Are a Whole Person (in addition to being a parent)

You are a whole person—with identities, needs, dreams, and desires that go beyond being a mother. While motherhood is profound and life-shaping, it’s not the only part of you. Nurturing the parts of you outside of motherhood isn’t selfish—it’s essential.

Getting to know who you are after becoming a mother and honoring the transformation into this new version of yourself is powerful. If you lose sight of that, it’s easy to slip into burnout, resentment, or bitterness. Exploring your post-motherhood identity can be liberating—and it allows you to show up more fully, for yourself and your family.

Modeling Self-Respect & Healthy Boundaries for Your Children

When you care for yourself, you model something powerful for your children:

• How to set boundaries.

• How to rest without guilt.

• How to honor their own needs without apology.

• How to care for others and themselves, too.

You teach them that self-worth isn’t measured by how much they give—but that they are worthy just as they are. (Repeat after me: I am worthy just as I am!)

This breaks the cycle of passing down the myth that a “good mother” always comes last. Instead, it creates a new truth: a good mother cares for herself because she’s worth it, and because it allows her to show up as the kind of parent she chooses to be.

Shifting Out of Survival Mode

Self-care helps shift you out of survival mode—out of that constant edge, where one more mess or meltdown feels like the end of the world. (Think spilled milk all over the floor moments after you finished cleaning.)

When your nervous system feels safe, your triggers begin to quiet. The small things don’t feel quite so big or overwhelming. You start to have the ability to respond, rather than just react.

Without intentional care, it’s easy to stay stuck in reactivity—a place where burnout, resentment, and overwhelm thrive. And that strain doesn’t just affect you—it ripples into your relationships, your parenting, your home, and even your children’s nervous systems.

A Moment to Regroup

Self-care offers something different.
A pause.
A breath.
A reset.

A chance to respond with a little more patience, presence, and grace—even if just a little bit more.

So often we forget to breathe deeply (or simply breathe). Yet, one deep, intentional cleansing breath can soften everything. Never underestimate the power of pausing long enough to focus on yourself—to feel your breath, to check in with your emotions, and to remember that you matter, too.

The Weight of the Mental Load

Motherhood is full of invisible labor—decisions, emotional holding, mental checklists, constant tending. The load is heavy, ever-changing, and often unseen, and rarely fully acknowledged.

It is a tender, complex experience, filled with love and loss, joy and grief, change and growth, and waves of big feelings.
You deserve space to breathe.
To process.
To feel.
To simply be—without a to-do list attached (though let’s be real, that space may still come with a small human nearby).

Without ways to release it, the weight builds—first quietly, then loudly—until it begins to show up in your body, your mind, your spirit, and your parenting.

Self-Care Is Not a Luxury

Self-care is not a luxury. It’s an act of love.

It has positive ripple effects that touch everyone around you—how you show up for your children, your partner, your community, and most importantly, for yourself. It strengthens connections with those whom you love the most.

It is a way to tend to the woman inside the motherhood journey—so that the love can speak louder than the resentment, and the wholeness within you can rise to hold it all.

At the end of the day, self-care is not about doing more—it’s about remembering yourself in the midst of it all.

It’s about giving yourself permission to pause, to breathe, to feel, and to be human, in addition to being a “mom.” When you nurture yourself, you’re not only protecting your own well-being, you’re also giving your children the gift of a healthier, more grounded version of you—and showing them what it looks like to grow up with balance, boundaries, and self-love.

Self-care looks different for each person, and it’s important to find what works for you. Remember, it’s a non-linear iterative process that may change often. That’s normal. What is important is that you keep trying until you find what works for you.

So start small, start intentionally, but start.
Now.
Today.

You are worthy of care, just as much as the little ones you pour your heart into every single day.

✨ If this resonates with you, I’d love to invite you to join the waitlist for my upcoming book, Your Feelings Are Valid: A Mother’s Guide to Validating Every Emotion. It’s filled with tools, reflections, and gentle practices to help you honor your emotions—because validating your feelings is one of the most powerful acts of self-care you can give yourself. Join here: https://pages.nonlinearjourney.com/waitlist-guide-for-moms

Matrescence is the whole transformation and identity shift of a woman as she moves through motherhood, including all the psychological, social, emotional, physical (hormonal), economic, cultural, and spiritual changes.
- as defined by Mama Rising - created by my mentor & teacher, author, and matrescence advocate Amy Taylor-Kabbaz

Words have the ability to destroy.
Words have the ability to heal.
Words create worlds.

When I first stumbled upon the concept of Matrescence, it felt like I found the missing piece that I didn’t even know I was searching for. Suddenly, I had a way to put into words everything I was going through as a new mom. It opened up new paths for healing that I didn't even know were out there.

Words are very powerful. Having the right language to express what we’re feeling—and what we’ve experienced—can be such a game-changer. It really helps to normalize and validate all those rollercoaster emotions we go through.

As new (and seasoned) moms, we’re learning to nurture our little ones while figuring out how to nurture ourselves too. It’s a wild ride!

And let’s be real: just because someone is born female doesn’t mean they automatically know how to be a mom. It’s kind of crazy that society expects us to have it all figured out right after giving birth.

Think back to your teenage years for a second. That time is all about change—your body is going through ups and downs, your hormones are all over the place, and you're trying to figure out who you are. We recognize that as adolescence and cut teens some slack because, well, they’re still figuring it out.

Now, let’s draw a parallel to Matrescence. Motherhood can feel just as chaotic! Our bodies, hormones, and emotions can be a whirlwind. We’re trying to understand our new identity while taking care of this tiny human who depends on us.

There were so many times I felt like I was failing at this whole 'mom' thing. The self-doubt was heavy, and the comparisons I made to other moms were relentless. I often beat myself up for feeling emotions that I thought I shouldn’t be having. I even questioned if I was cut out for this motherhood thing.

But then I learned about Matrescence, and everything began to shift. Sure, I still have my moments of uncertainty and wonder about my choices, but knowing about Matrescence helps me see that I’m also evolving and learning through this journey. I’ve started to give myself a whole lot more grace.

How freeing is that? And guess what? This is just the beginning!

I can’t wait to share more insights as we navigate the non-linear motherhood journey together.

P.S. Being a mama is hard. Grieving is hard. Being a mama and grieving is hard. You’re not alone. If this stirred up any unexpected grief, I’m here. Whether you’d like quick coaching or want to explore things more deeply, let’s chat.

Learn more about grief and motherhood.

There are so many life changes when becoming a parent. And just when you get used to one change, there’s often another one right away.

In my other post, Grieving the Life that Was & Loving the Life that Is (Part 1), we discussed changes in identity, lifestyle, responsibilities, body autonomy, and body.

Now, let’s focus on changes in mental state, emotions, relationships, and grieving as a parent.

Change in Mental State

Postpartum depression and anxiety are REAL and HARD.

With my second, I struggled (and still am struggling to some degree, though doing much better) with severe and debilitating postpartum anxiety (PPA). My focus was on caring for my baby and toddler, building up my milk supply, and surviving one day at a time. (Note: surviving didn't always include meeting any of my basic needs per se, but I was satisfied as long as the girls were fully taken care of).

I barely had any energy for my husband, family, or friends. I felt so isolated and yet didn’t have it in me to connect and reach out to anyone. This reinforced the isolation and it took a lot of effort and therapy to break out of it and still takes an intentional effort.

Building up a milk supply has many hormonal impacts that deeply affect the mental state. (Weaning also has just as many hormonal impacts that deeply affect the mental state.) The decision to breastfeed - whether it be to nurse or pump -  or not breastfeed and give formula, is a deeply personal one. And, the amount our body does or does not produce, can have a profound impact on us. I always assumed I’d nurse my babies, naively thinking it just happened naturally. That was not the case with either. 

With my first, trying to get her to nurse was so stressful - for both of us- that I ended up exclusively pumping for her. I grieved not being able to nurse for a long time. I thought there was something wrong with my body that R wouldn’t latch. Firstly, she was born prematurely, then I didn’t have any milk and couldn’t nurse. I was so focused on what went wrong that I forgot to focus on all that was going right! I was so busy beating myself and my body up for things that were out of my control. (Hello postpartum anxiety!) My girl was tiny, mighty, healthy, and opinionated!  My body just needed a little extra time to build my milk supply and catch up with her. And build my milk supply I did! I am so proud that I was able to pump for 7 months so that she was fully breastfed. With my second, we are doing a bit of hybrid, but I am still mainly pumping and am now in the hard process of weaning at 7 months.

There were many many days that all I did was nurse/pump/feed the baby, repeat. Sometimes I got to shower and brush my teeth.

I should pause myself here and reframe this sentence. When I say, ‘all I did’ that incinuates that I didn’t do much. But, as we know, nursing and pumping is A LOT and I should not minimize that in the least.

I was lucky that I had help and support, but I constantly berated myself for needing it and accepting it. I compared myself to other mothers who seemed to have it all together. I constantly chastised myself that I couldn’t seem to pull myself together, especially when I did have help, and a lot of it.

Comparing ourselves to others will never get us anywhere, especially as we never really know the full story with anyone. We don’t actually know what goes on behind the perfect Pinterest photos.

Intellectually I know all this, but in the deep throes of PPA and exhaustion, it’s often hard to remember. 

Pumping and Mental State

I am also very proud of myself that I pumped for both my girls for 7 months (still going with the little one). I’m proud that I sought support from mental health professionals, eventually joined baby groups, and reached out to friends. I worked to pull myself out of my cocoon and let others help me to do so. It was and is a struggle, but I am making baby steps and doing so much better. 

The postpartum period, while glamorized and not talked about enough, is VERY hard, lonely, and isolating. It is not strictly this happy careful period of bonding and love, but can be some of the darkest times for new mothers.

It can be filled with so many ups and downs.

So many, "OH my gosh, how am going to survive getting up every two hours with the baby for another month?" and so many,  "OH my gosh, the baby just did something new! I'm so in love."

It’s normal and hard, which is totally- you guessed it- normal.

Change in emotions

I feel a love that I didn’t even know could exist. Sometimes I think that my heart will explode with all the love that I feel for these two tiny humans. I remember people telling me this when I was pregnant with my first. Moms would say to me that they couldn’t quite describe the enormity of the feelings, the only way to get it, is to experience it. I have to fully agree with this one.

I also feel worries that I never quite knew could exist. So many worries about the baby and the toddler.

Am I a terrible mom for needing some time for myself?
How much screen time is really okay?
Is it okay that they ate mac-n-cheese for the last 3 meals? Are they eating enough? Drinking enough?
What to do when they get sick? Should we go to the ER, call the advice nurse or give Tylenol?
Are they still breathing? Why do they lay so still?
What do the different coughs mean?
Will someone kidnap them from the park if I look away for a minute?
How to keep my girls safe in college (yes, they are not even in preschool yet and I have those worries)?
How to teach about positive self-talk and body image? Instill self-confidence and humility?
Protect from bullying?
Teach them never to be the bully but to stand up for others who need it.
The list goes on and on.

Two extremes- deep love and deep worry - exist fully side by side. 

Needing a break and never wanting them to leave your side

I also feel so guilty1 admitting that sometimes I want - okay need! - a break from them. I need 5 minutes to myself with no one needing anything from me. I look at the clock waiting for bedtime so I can get a respite. But, as soon as both girls are asleep, I find myself looking at pictures of them or staring at the monitor because I miss them already. Oh, the roller coaster of motherhood!

Working again is also challenging. I'm lucky that I work for myself and have a bit of a more flexible schedule. However, the guilt that I feel for being excited to work again coupled with the sadness that I don't have that time with my baby is hard. I love the work that I get to do - serving grievers- and I know that I'm a better mom and wife by utilizing that part of myself. I also want to model for my girls that they can be moms and follow their dreams. And, simply put, I miss them and feel sad for any missed moment.

Change in Relationships

(There are so so so many changes, too many to write about at once, but, here are some.) 

Romantic

A different relationship with husband/partner (intimacy can be hard due to many reasons - post-birth vaginal pain/exhaustion from caring for a baby/being 'touched' out).

In many ways you can feel closer, you just created a life together! How cool is that? And in many ways, due to lack of sleep, and the myriad needs of a tiny adorable boss, bitterness, and resentment can sometimes creep in.

My husband and I struggled in the early months with both of the girls. We fought a lot. I snapped at him a lot.  There were days when I wondered if we’d ever enjoy each other again. Thankfully, for us, we are getting back to that place because we’ve been intentionally putting the work in. It takes time and effort.

I do wonder, however, if we are even capable of having a conversation that doesn’t involve the girls somehow….. Maybe in 20 years? Doubtful.

Friendships

It really is interesting how having a kid changes friendships. Navigating napping schedules. Tantrums. Meltdowns. Childcare and lack of it. Exhaustion. No energy to get the kids out and navigate crowds. All this makes it really hard to keep up with friendships, especially with those without children. 

Before we got pregnant, I had a former friend tell me that once I had kids we would no longer be friends. Let's just say our friendship fizzled right then. I had another friend who removed me from all social media. I know that she was grieving infertility and wanting to be a mom, and my heart aches for her. My heart also hurts because I miss being her friend. 

On the flip side, many friendships deepen. I have met many other mommies that are becoming closer and closer friends. I’m so grateful to be in the trenches with them.

Having people to share laughs and tears with is so important. I remember in the early months with my first, I was so overwhelmed that even getting out of the house for a walk was hard. I was supposed to go for a walk with a new mom friend and told her I couldn’t. I was so frazzled and embarrassed. Her response was asking me what type of Jamba Juice I like and showing up at my house with it. Instead of our walk, we sat in my backyard and chatted. It meant so much to me.

Another mom friend blew my mind by changing my daughter’s diaper in her lap in the time that it took me to look around, in a minor panic, and try to figure out where at Starbucks I was going to change her. 

I’m still building my village and grateful for all the people that I have met and am meeting through my children.

Having a kid cuts out a lot of the BS. There are days I still feel lonely and too overwhelmed to be social, but I’m giving myself grace and being okay that relationships may take a bit longer to cultivate and deepen. My village is forming slowly and strongly.

Family

I think it is common for our parents to sometimes have an adjustment to no longer being the ‘parent’ or the authority. I remember my daughter screamed, “Mommy!” and both my mother and I responded. I had to remind her that I was the mother in this case. 

There are times when I have to gently (okay, I’m not always successful in the gentle part) remind my mom that there are things that my husband and I want to do differently in raising our girls. There are many things that have changed since we were kids. Science and research have taught us a lot about child safety and rearing. The internet is a blessing and a curse. We know so much, sometimes too much. We have so many choices and are lucky to have options. But, we are also cursed with information overload. (Seriously, how many different types of bottles need to exist?) 

But, truth be told, I still call my mom and ask her lots of questions and for advice. She will always be my mom and my safe place, just as I hope always to be that to my little girls’.

Grieving New Milestones as a Parent

When I got pregnant and had my first, huge waves of grief came crashing down on me. My dad was never going to get to meet my baby. He would have loved being a grandfather. He would have probably - most definitely - spoiled the heck out of her.

Instead, my daughter is named after him serving as a constant connection to him. (In Judaism, we only name babies after someone deceased). Each time my daughter learns something new, there is a pang of grief that I can’t share with him.

Father’s Day took on a whole new meaning once I became a mother. I wanted my husband to have that day to feel special. This meant that I could no longer zone out to Netflix and hide from all the Hallmark-in-your-face look-what-you-are-missing ads. The day is less emotionally charged with the changed focus of it now being on my husband AND I do wish more than anything that I still had my dad.

There really is no way to describe it and fully capture the entirety of the experience.

There are some of the highest highs and the lowest of lows and everything in between.

And all of it, no matter how strange or out there, is apparently mostly normal.

And, none of us really have any idea what we are doing despite how it may appear to others.

We are ALL learning as we go. 

Previously published on August 1, 2023, on Yahdav & Hanlon’s The Non-Linear Journey blog.

I always wanted to be a mom and I always love to sleep late in the morning. Those two are indeed mutually exclusive, at least in the season I’m in now. I knew my life would change in ways I could not imagine once I had a baby. That is the understatement of the year. To this day and I’m sure for the rest of my life, my life continues to change in ways that I could not have imagined, both good and bad. (I’ve come to terms with the fact that 7:30 am is now considered sleeping in).

(Remember: grief is the normal and natural reaction to the loss of any kind and the conflicting feelings around the change or end of a familiar pattern or behavior).

There are SO many changes: identity, lifestyle, responsibilities, body autonomy, body, mental state, emotions, and relationships to name a few.  In short, having a baby is a total life shift in pretty much every single facet of life.

It is also VERY normal to have seemingly contradicting emotions at the same time, all the time. Opposite emotions can and do exist, except for being a mom and getting to sleep late in the morning. (I kid…well, sort of). 

Let’s tease out some of these changes in the context of grief and becoming a mother:

Change in identity

I personally love being called R and S’s mom - it gives my heart a surge. I love hearing my oldest call me mommy and am excited for when my youngest will too. It’s also a change in identity - I’m no longer defined as myself but as someone’s mother. I’m a mom and everything else in the world comes after. 

I remember having to get used to calling my now husband, fiancee, and then later, husband. That was a big change in identity too -   no longer being defined as myself, but being someone’s wife and even taking on a new last name.

It was so cool and fun to say, husband, my husband. I feel that same rush when I say, “Yup, I’m R’s mom. I’m S’s mom.” I LOVE getting to say, “my daughters.” I sometimes still can’t believe how lucky I am that I get to call these two beautiful little girls my daughters. 

At the same time, there are moments when I want to be Ilana, the entrepreneur, grief counselor, friend, daughter, sister, sassy tenacious woman - the many aspects of me- and not defined by others, even others that I love more than anything in the world. 

Change in lifestyle/freedom 

Gone are the days of sleeping in and lazily enjoying a weekend morning. I can’t go out with friends without prior planning. I can’t even just sleep when I’m sick. Traveling has become a whole new level of stress. Dinner time is sometimes a battle of wits: my husband and I versus my 2.5-going-on-16-year-old.

Life has also taken on a whole new level of joy and meaning - beyond anything that I could have imagined. Seeing the world through both my little girls’ eyes is exhilarating.  Reading the same book for the 100th time with the same zeal as the first time, going down the same slide over and over, and running around parks/museums/malls is so much fun because it’s with them. Watching them smile, hearing them giggle, and seeing their joy as they continuously discover something new is so heartwarming.  

There are days, though, that it feels stifling - trying to manage big emotions from tiny humans, childcare snafus, and simply finding the energy to take a shower. Days that I want to crawl under my daughter’s crib with the cat and hide from it all. Cry my eyes out on the floor with my 6-month-old. 

And..... there are days that I feel like I can do it all and then some.

Change in responsibilities

I’m totally and utterly responsible for these tiny humans. Huge love for a human that is totally dependent on me. There’s so much power and responsibility in being totally in control of someone. It’s intimidating and exciting. I have the power to shape these little humans and holy smokes, I have the power to shape these little humans. I’m the adult here. I get to make the rules. I get to help instill positive values in these little girls.

I sometimes look at my husband and me and have to laugh. There are times that I feel like we are still children (with jobs and credit cards!), and are only playing grown-up, pretending to have any idea of what we are doing.

But, I also am excited to know that I’m working to raise two strong, independent, smart, kind girls who will hopefully one day positively impact the world. That’s pretty cool to think about.

Lack of autonomy of body (continued from pregnancy)

The baby wants to be held in the way that they want to be held irrelevant whether you are comfortable or not. You get thrown up on. Pooped on. Sneezed on. Peed on (I’m sure there are other bodily functions I’m leaving out, but you get the idea here). Your body is not your own, still, even after giving birth.

When I finished pumping for my first, it was such a big moment when I realized I could take some medicine (for a headache, cold, whatever) and not have to think about it and worry if it would affect my supply or baby. I could eat and drink what I wanted. Such a sense of freedom that I took for granted. 

Now that I’m nursing and pumping for my second, I’m feeling all the worries, lack of bodily autonomy, and personal space again. I’m so excited that I get to nurse a tiny bit for my second (with my first, we never could quite get the latching thing down and I was sad that neither of us was able to have that experience).

But after 7 months of exclusively pumping with some nursing sprinkled in, I’m feeling pretty done. I’m feeling the guilt of weaning and the joyful anticipation of getting my body back in the near future. 

I LOVE snuggling with my 6-month-old and my 2.5-year-old when she lets me. I love them wanting to be held and be close to me AND there are times that I do not want to be touched by anyone, including my fur baby and husband.

Body Changes (the focus here is post-partum)

Giving birth is a trauma to the body. There can be all types of tearing and surgical cutting.  Recovering from a vaginal birth and a C-section can be challenging, especially with a new demanding tiny human.

Weight gain (weight loss for some). Stretch marks. Varicose veins. Saggy breasts. Enlarged feet. Wider ribs that don’t shrink back to pre-baby size. Food aversions that don’t go away. So many bodily changes - too many to list out.

Also, the exhaustion. The lack of sleep is unreal with the many effects that it has on the body. Producing milk/not being able to produce milk and all the physical (and emotional) struggles that go along with breastfeeding.

I sometimes look at my body and don’t even recognize myself. I’ve gained around 30 pounds and don’t fit into any of my clothing - yet. I don’t feel at home in my body, almost disdainful about how I look.

I also love my body so much and am so grateful that I was able to grow these two beautiful humans. My body is/was able to produce milk that nourishes their little bodies.

My body allows me to protectively wrap my arms around my girls and kiss all boo-boos and make them better. 

I strive to practice self-love and model the self-love that I want to teach my girls. It’s a struggle but one I will not give up for both myself and them. 

Motherhood is the journey of a lifetime. I'm so grateful and humbled to get to be on it. 

Originally published August 1, 2023, on The Non-Linear Journey Blog (on Yahdav & Hanlon website).

There are many seemingly conflicting emotions that arise with having and raising tiny humans. Grief and joy around birth, love and loneliness caring for a newborn, excitement for new friendships, and grieving the loss of old friendships. There is the love of snuggling and being very touched out, feeling super happy and also completely depleted and sad. There are so many changes both wonderful and hard. All feelings around them, are valid, and frankly, quite normal. We just don’t talk about them enough.

I want to share some misconceptions - through a grief lens - that I wish I knew more about before giving birth to my first baby: 

Not all babies cry when they are born.

I had no idea about this one. To me: 

Baby Crying = Baby Alive/Breathing
Baby Not Crying = Baby Not Alive/Not Breathing

Many babies do cry, but not all. Who the heck knows why? The doctors certainly did not know why my girl did not cry. 

My little peanut was in a huge rush to get out a month early. But, once she got out, and realized all the things she’d have to do on her own (i.e. breathe), I think she decided that she wanted to go back in. Too late, little one…. I wanted her in there another month, too, and would have been happy to be breathing for her a bit longer. At birth, it was clear that she was impatient just like her momma.

I have never been more scared in my life when I did not hear her cry. I wish I knew that not all babies cry and that not crying does not always mean not breathing. I remember trying to negotiate with G-d that if He would just make her cry (aka be okay), I would be so grateful (not sure what my promise was…. ) I should have specified to G-d that I wanted her to cry in that moment.

She did not. I did not hear her cry for a few days.

But, once she started, she has since made up for it. (Though to be honest, in the early days, even when her crying was deafening and I wanted to hide under her crib with the cat, without her, part of me was still comforted hearing her cry because it soothed my heart from those moments when I didn’t know she was okay).

It took a while to work through that trauma and grief and all the naive ideas I had about giving birth to my first daughter. It took a while to come to terms with the fact that it was not my body’s fault she came early and that I did not let her down. 

Latching does not happen automatically for everyone.

I learned this one the hard way, too. Not everyone can nurse. Not everyone wants or chooses to nurse. Choosing to breastfeed/nurse/exclusively pump/give formula is an incredibly personal choice. The only thing, and I repeat, the only thing important is to do what works for you and to feed your baby. Fed is best. Mental health is imperative. Full stop there. 

Not everyone produces enough milk. Building up the milk supply is hard both emotionally and physically. Weaning is equally hard. Both create huge hormonal imbalances.

Nursing does not happen automatically. It’s actually pretty hard for some of us. I mean, I knew there technically could be nursing difficulties, but having never tried it before, I really had no idea. I just always assumed I’d nurse. Hadn’t really put too much thought into it. I got a pump because my doctor and insurance told me to. 

Well, let’s just say latching did not come naturally for us (with both my girls). With my first, in the beginning, the nurse suggested that it was because she was too small and I didn’t have enough milk. We tried nursing in the NICU. We tried nursing at home. Three different lactation specialists on the hospital staff tried to help. I even hired a private lactation specialist in hopes she could share some magic not previously known to the other specialists. After this, my husband wisely encouraged me to stop seeking lactation specialists to avoid getting more conflicting guidance.

I started pumping around the clock to build my supply. Once my milk came in, there was definitely plenty of milk. I still tried to nurse sporadically but it was so stressful - she’d scream, I’d inwardly scream. It got to a point where I stopped trying and fell into exclusive pumping. 

I’m pumped a lot to ease my ‘guilt’ that I couldn’t nurse her.
I pumped a lot to ease my ‘guilt’ that my body let her down and she came early. 1

She was fully breastfed for the first 8 months of her life. I had enough frozen milk to get her to her first birthday. However, my opinionated first child did not take to my frozen milk and I ended up donating close to 500 ounces of my frozen milk to 5 different preemie babies. I have so many conflicting emotions about this. I’m so proud to be able to help other babies; and sad for how much stress, energy, and time I spent with my pump and not my baby.

I’m grieving what I missed in those first few months due to pumping and being completely depleted. I'm grieving not being able to have the experience of nursing my first and having that sacred time together. I'm grieving how fixated I was on how many ounces I pumped and not always being able to be the one to feed it to her. I’m grieving how I measured how good of a mother I was by how much milk I was able to pump that day.

Another huge lesson and this is a total ‘duh’ obvious one, but bears being repeated: fed is best. Fed is best. I want to scream it from the rooftops. 

Sometimes we don’t produce enough milk, or the baby doesn’t tolerate the milk, or the baby won’t latch, whatever the issue. But, if the baby is hungry, the baby must eat. Formula. Breastmilk. Bottle. Breast. The bottom line: make sure the baby is satiated. Ego or whatever has no place here. This is a reminder that I had to constantly give myself. Fed is best. An emotionally healthy mama is best. 

Pumping was hard, painful at times, and cost a lot of time, energy, and money. But, it was a choice that I made.  I wanted her to have my milk and part of me felt so guilty about my body failing her in not carrying her to term. (In retrospect, I know it was not my fault that she came early, but I still grieve it nonetheless). It was my choice to pump and mine alone. It’s sooo important to make that choice for you and your family. No one gets to tell you what to do.

Caring for your own mental & physical health IS NOT selfish. 

It’s imperative to care for yourself to be a good mother. Seek professional mental support, if needed. Squeeze in a nap. Do a workout with the baby. Whisper something kind to yourself. Take a deep breath. Stand outside with your eyes closed and breathe deeply. Thirty seconds can make a huge difference. (I like to call it mommy time out).

As the old adage says, “You can’t pour from an empty cup.” You literally can’t. 

I’m still figuring out how to balance caring for myself and my kiddos. But, I am working to make my well-being a high priority as well. I know the best way to model healthy habits is to adopt them myself. I wish I had more to share on this one, but I suppose being aware of what I want to do is a good start. 

Awareness is a very powerful tool. We can only work on changing what we are aware of. I am working on my mental and physical health for me and to be a good role model for my babies.

You may not feel an immediate connection with your baby and that is totally normal. 

The bond comes, not always right away and then you will experience a love so big that there literally are no words to describe it.

My Spectra (pump) and I, on the other hand, were inseparable (literally) and bonded from the start. 

I do remember about 3-4 months in, finally really, really feeling that deep bond and connection. This was the case with both of my girls. In talking to other moms, I found out that I am not alone. This does not make me or anyone else a bad mom/parent. It makes me a mom. A human mom. Now I feel so deeply connected to both of them and that connection and love grows deeper and deeper each day. 

When it comes to parenting and being a parent, there are so many differing thoughts and opinions. But, I will say that the one thing that has pretty much been totally true across the board with all the moms that I have spoken to is that the love that you feel for this tiny human is like no other love. I love my husband. I love my family and friends. I love my fur princess. But, the love I have for these tiny adorable demanding princesses is beyond words, beyond description. My heart is swelling as I write this. I don’t have the words to express this love that is so big and just gets bigger and bigger each day.

People told me that when you have a child you experience this love that you can’t imagine otherwise. I was always like…… "yeah yeah." But, wow. That is true. It took a few months to start blossoming. But once it started, it never stopped. It grows and grows.

It’s the most amazing - most terrifying - feeling in the world.

No one really knows what they are doing.

Some are just better at posting Pinterest-worthy pictures on social media and holding it together in public. You never know what is really going on with anyone, ever (this applies to pretty much all aspects of life - especially grieving and parenting). 

You can’t truly prepare to become a parent. Sure, you can take all types of classes, read all the books, plan for all types of scenarios, and meet with professionals and moms. While some of it can be helpful, it really does not fully prepare you for meeting that tiny unique human. Because the one scenario you don’t plan for is the one that will happen. At least that’s my experience.

Just as every grief journey is unique, so is every parenting experience and child. 

All of these opinions are mine and mine alone. I am no doctor or pediatric expert. When I started writing this, I was a first-time mom of a 17-month-old. Now as I am finally finishing writing this and am a mom of two. My 17-month-old is now 33 months old, and my second (who was not even a glimmer in my eye when I started writing this) is 9 months old! 

I know I’m still no expert and there is a lot I don’t know. And now there is a lot I do know. I also know that a lot of the things that I write about, I WISH someone had talked to me about sooner and in more depth, therefore I feel compelled to start the conversation to help moms feel less alone.

I want to talk about it as much as possible and normalize this conversation.

It's okay that being a parent is not glamorous all the time. In fact most of the time, it is not. And sometimes, it is not fun. Not even a little. Other times, it is amazing. Sometimes it's everything in between.

When I was in the thick of the newborn fog, I wish I knew I was not alone. Like, really internalized it. I wish I knew that I did not need to cry alone in the dark on the bathroom floor. In fact, I was talking to another new mom friend, who months earlier was going through the same thing and we both didn’t know it. I wish we could have supported each other. Cried on the floor on the phone together.

We moms need to stick together. (Dads, guardians, and all the other types of parents, too. I don’t mean to exclude anyone, I’m just focusing on my experience and using mom as a general term). 

Those of us raising tiny humans need to support one another. This is the hardest job ever. (This is also the best job ever!) It’s on us to raise kind, thoughtful, honest humans to help heal the mess that this world has started to become. Each and every one of us raising a human gets to take part in this. If we all do our bit, think about the huge impact we could have. It’s a bit daunting and so very exciting and amazing. 

Every season of parenting introduces new joys and new sorrows. As mothers, we are constantly tried in new ways. Fears, insecurities, and latent grief can be brought to the surface, just as forgotten joys and hobbies can be reintroduced.

As hard as it is, parenting gives us an opportunity to heal old wounds and process our grief. We get to grow, learn, and teach alongside our tiny humans. I really think that we can learn as much from our tiny humans as they can learn from us. We just need to be willing and able to embrace it. 

—

Originally published on The Non-Linear Journey Yahdav & Hanlon Blog on Sept 22, 2023