I never imagined that becoming a mother would require me to start from scratch—not just in how I care for children, but in how I care for myself. I thought I would step into the role easily, shaped by instinct and love. And while love was abundant, instinct didn’t always show up. What did show up—loud and clear—was uncertainty, exhaustion, and the surprising silence of losing myself in the noise of diapers, cries, and sleepless nights.
My motherhood didn’t look like the dreamy images I had seen. It was loud, messy, unstructured. It asked me to stay calm when I felt chaos inside. It asked me to be patient when I was running on empty. And it taught me that the greatest work I would ever do wouldn’t be in a boardroom or on a stage—it would be on the floor, eye to eye with a toddler, learning how to breathe through big feelings, both theirs and mine.
Over time, I found healing in the small. I learned to slow down. To say yes to puddle jumping and no to over-scheduling. I began trusting that being present was more powerful than being perfect. I started documenting our days—not to perform, but to remember. And that’s when I discovered just how many others were craving the same honesty.
I first started sharing short clips of our daily life through gentle parenting moments captured on TikTok. These weren’t curated videos; they were snapshots of real connection—my daughter balancing on a tree stump, my son making pancakes while I guided him from the side. The response was unexpected. Messages poured in from other parents: “This reminds me to slow down.” “Thank you for showing the mess too.”
Those connections helped me realize that what we need most isn’t more advice. We need more reflection. A place to be seen in the middle of the journey, not just at the milestones. So I started writing on Threads, where I could share short reflections on motherhood, presence, and daily growth. No pressure to be profound—just honest.
One post I wrote after a particularly hard day read:
"Today, I lost my patience. Again. But instead of spiraling, I knelt down, looked in my child’s eyes, and said, ‘I’m sorry. That was my big feeling, not yours.’ And somehow, that tiny repair felt like the bravest thing I’ve done all week."
That moment sparked a wave of responses. It reminded me that other mothers weren’t looking for perfection—they were looking for company in the mess.
Wanting a quieter, deeper space for longer thoughts, I began writing more intentionally on Mastodon. The platform allowed me to explore the emotional labor of motherhood, the shifts in identity, and how caring for children often forces us to reparent ourselves. My essays on emotional load, grace, and self-forgiveness became places of pause—for both me and those reading.
The digital world can feel noisy and transactional, but when you share with honesty, it can become a soft place to land. I don’t pretend to have it figured out. I still lose my cool. I still struggle with balance. But I’ve learned that the most transformative part of this journey isn’t the parenting—it’s the becoming.
Motherhood asked me to become softer without losing strength, to become more present without forgetting myself, and to lead my children not with control but with connection. Every tantrum, every bedtime story, every small act of care is shaping who they become—and who I become alongside them.
So if you're here, reading this, and wondering if you're doing enough: you are. If you feel overwhelmed, exhausted, stretched—you're not alone. If you're seeking spaces where motherhood is honored in its fullness, from the quiet joys to the unspoken griefs, I welcome you into mine.
This journey isn't linear. It’s circular. We grow, we regress, we try again. And in that loop, something beautiful takes root: resilience, empathy, and a fierce kind of love that holds it all.
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