I cannot remember a time when I didn’t dream of having children—it’s something I always knew I wanted. As I grew older, my “maternal instincts” only grew stronger. I loved holding babies whenever I got the chance, and I became a popular babysitter because I genuinely enjoyed being around children—and they seemed to sense that love. It felt natural, effortless even. When I married my husband, a man who also dreamed of building a family, I was beyond excited to step into motherhood when the time came.
After almost two long, frustrating years of trying, I finally became pregnant with my first son. My Pinterest boards were overflowing with nursery ideas, adorable outfits, and parenting tips. I thought I had it all figured out—how I wanted to raise my child, and equally important, what I would never do as a parent. I set incredibly high expectations for myself and motherhood. But I didn’t consider the possibility that reality might not match my dreams. I didn’t talk much with my husband about the small, everyday expectations we held in our heads. Sure, we discussed the big things, but the tiny, emotional nuances—the real-life daily pressures of parenthood—weren’t really on the table.
The day we brought our son home, my husband and I got into a fight over the thermostat. Looking back, it was a silly miscommunication, yet in that moment, it felt monumental. As days turned into weeks, I loved my son fiercely, but I was also shocked and confused by my own emotions. He cried—a lot. Sleepless nights were expected, but I didn’t anticipate the frustration I sometimes felt when he cried or expressed his needs. Housework felt overwhelming. I lost patience over trivial things, like diaper changes or small disagreements with my husband. I remember looking at my son one night, exhausted and exasperated, thinking, “Why is this so hard?” For almost two years, I cried nightly—not because I didn’t love him, but because I wanted to love motherhood the way I imagined, and I didn’t always.
As my son grew, I continued to wrestle with confusion and self-doubt. Postpartum depression and anxiety certainly played a role, but even beyond that, I felt as if I was missing some invisible mark I had set for myself as a mom. Watching my little boy grow into a curious toddler was joyful—I read to him, we played, we laughed, we loved hard—but I still found myself frustrated more easily than I wanted. I needed breaks more than I thought I would, and I clashed with my husband over small, everyday matters. I constantly asked myself, “Why can’t I be the mom I imagined? Where did I go wrong?”
When my son was 19 months old, I finally felt ready to grow our family. My husband had been eager to have another child sooner, but I needed time to process my feelings, to understand my mind and heart. Being pregnant with a toddler was exhausting, yet watching him experience the world while growing inside me was a special joy. During my pregnancy with my daughter, I felt more confident—maybe I simply had too little energy to dwell on my perceived shortcomings.
Yet, even when my daughter was born, I felt a mix of excitement and apprehension. Had I learned from the challenges I faced with my son? Or would history repeat itself? Sleepless nights often found me replaying scenarios in my head, worrying, “Will I handle this better next time?” I had more realistic expectations this time, and I understood newborn behavior. Still, there were moments when I wasn’t the mom I had envisioned.
Over time, I realized I had been too focused on what I wasn’t, rather than what I was. Yes, I need breaks. I am not always the crafty mom, the organized mom, the on-time mom, or the Pinterest-perfect mom. I am not always calm, fit, or endlessly patient. But I am a fun mom. I am a mom who loves hearing her children laugh and takes far too many pictures. I am a mom who actively seeks experiences that excite my kids. I am a mom who tries hard, grows, and evolves every day. I am a mom who loves too deeply to measure.
So no, I may not be the mom I thought I’d be. But that’s okay. I am the mom I was meant to be—flawed, real, devoted, and full of love. And in the end, that is more than enough.
