Motherhood didn’t arrive in the way I expected. It came quietly, then suddenly all at once, folding itself into my days with the weight and wonder of something life-altering. When I first became a mother, I had ideas—beautiful, organized ideas—about what this season of life would look like. I imagined tidy mornings, educational play, balanced meals, and routines that made sense. I thought that if I could just plan things right, I would glide through this chapter with gentle confidence.

But real motherhood arrived messier, louder, and more sacred than any version I’d dreamed up.

My first child taught me that love is not clean or convenient. It’s 3 AM feedings when your body begs for rest, tiny hands tugging at your shirt when you're trying to think straight, the ache of not knowing what’s wrong—but showing up anyway. I had always assumed love was about the big gestures, but parenting made me realize it lives in the smallest things: brushing tangles with care, memorizing snack preferences, noticing the difference between a cry for help and a cry for comfort.

By the time my second child came along, I had already shed much of my old self. Not in a way that felt like losing something—but in the way a caterpillar becomes something new. I was beginning to understand that motherhood is not something to “get right” but something to grow with. Each day with my children showed me how much I didn’t know—and how much I needed to learn. I began to see myself not as the teacher, but as a student in their world. And what a world it is.

I started to slow down. The rushing, the comparing, the chasing of ideals—none of it held meaning the way presence did. My children weren’t asking me to be perfect. They were asking me to be with them. Fully. Even when I was tired. Even when I didn’t have the answers. Even when I wasn’t sure who I was outside of motherhood anymore. They didn’t need a flawless version of me—they just needed me.

Letting go of perfection wasn’t easy. I had spent years holding myself to impossible standards: a clean house, nutritious meals, structured learning, emotional regulation, patience, creativity, and grace—all of it, all the time. But I learned that perfection creates distance. It pushes us toward performance, not presence. And what children crave most is connection. Not a tidy living room, not fancy toys, not a scheduled day filled with checkmarks—but a parent who looks them in the eye and listens.

So I changed the way I parented. We embraced slower mornings. We stayed in pajamas until noon. We turned messes into memories. I stopped interrupting play to “teach,” and started learning through it. My children taught me how to notice—how to see the way a leaf curls, how to hear the difference between silence and peace, how to wonder aloud without rushing to Google for an answer. Learning became a shared experience, not a one-way street.

Of course, it hasn’t always been smooth. I’ve lost my patience more times than I can count. I’ve cried in the bathroom while both kids knocked on the door. I’ve forgotten appointments, burned dinners, and said things I regretted. But I’ve also apologized. And what I’ve found is that repair is more powerful than perfection. Saying “I’m sorry” models something far more valuable than getting it right all the time. It teaches humility, honesty, and how to start again.

Motherhood has deepened every part of who I am. It’s challenged my sense of control and shown me how to be flexible. It’s softened my sharp edges and reminded me that strength doesn’t always roar. Sometimes strength looks like holding a crying toddler and whispering, “I’m here,” when you’re also holding back tears of your own.

It has also made me more curious, more forgiving, more grounded. I don’t parent with a fixed philosophy or a 10-step guide. I parent by tuning in. To my children, yes—but also to myself. Some days, that means leaning into rhythm and flow. Other days, it means stepping back and making space—for play, for feelings, for silence.

As much as this is a journey of raising children, it’s also been a journey of raising myself. I've learned to question my reactions, revisit my assumptions, and reparent the parts of me that never got the gentleness I now try to give. I’ve realized that the legacy I leave isn’t in the big moments, but in the everyday ones: how I respond to tears, how I speak about mistakes, how I embrace imperfection.

I often say that motherhood didn’t change me—it revealed me. It peeled back the layers and brought me closer to who I really am. A woman who is still learning, still stumbling, still trying—and still showing up.

And perhaps that’s the most beautiful part. We don’t need to be extraordinary. We just need to be present. Because in the eyes of a child, presence is extraordinary.

So if you’re a parent walking through the mess and magic of this journey too, I see you. I’m right there with you—in the laundry piles, the bedtime routines, the whispered apologies, and the unexpected joy. We may not always get it right, but we are learning. And we are enough.