It’s Mother’s Day 2025, and the social media posts I appreciate most are the ones that acknowledge how complex this day can be for those who have mothers, are mothers, wanted to be mothers, never wanted to be mothers, or lost their mothers. In other words… everyone I know.

I have a mother I cherished, who left this world in 2007, when I was 22.
I have a surrogate mother, the woman who did her best to fill in the gaps when I was dropped at her doorstep at the start of my chaotic teenage years.

This year, much of my inner work has been inspired by the book Mother Hunger by Kelly McDaniel. I’ve been peeling back layers of what I now understand as my “mother wound” or the deep emotional imprint left by inconsistent or unavailable mothering.

I explore this wound in more depth elsewhere, but for today, I just want to call out: Mother’s Day is complicated.

MY ENTRY INTO MOTHERHOOD — Resistance, Inadequacy, Burnout

As I was drafting my life plan during my youth, I had zero intention of becoming a mother. So when I had a positive pregnancy test at age 20, I was utterly terrified.  I felt I had no experience or qualifications for this radically important role and I didn’t know where to turn for guidance. I wasn’t ready. And I didn’t know how to become ready.

So I dropped out of the world for five years to try to understand what motherhood was supposed to mean.  I stayed home with my son and refused to let anyone babysit him, determined to home school and somehow nail this perfect mom thing…  and it was frustrating beyond words to try to live up to my ideal and get my son to on board with the untarnished mom reputation I was seeking to maintain.

By the time my second child surprise arrived, nine years later, I was totally burned out on motherhood—and life. I had nothing left in my well. I tried to outsource the burden of parenting to daycare as much as possible. Anything to carry the weight. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was missing the point.  That there must be a way for this to feel different, to not feel like a ball and chain, but a tender and sacred connection.

DIVORCE — Rock Bottom and the Risk of Truth

By the time I filed for divorce in 2021, I was convinced I wasn’t a good mother and parenting was something I was just hoping to survive.

I felt caged and disempowered, as a parent and partner, and I wanted to run from everything. I knew I couldn’t stay in an unbearable marriage, but I feared that choosing myself would ruin my children. I had no financial safety net and was earning just $16 an hour at a part-time job.

But staying in a marriage that was killing me felt even more dangerous.

The divorce was brutal. My daughter unleashed all of her fury on me. At one point I googled, “What to do when your child is abusive to you.”  The toxicity felt unrelenting, but I knew I couldn’t divorce my daughter, and that we’d have to find a way through it all.

I stayed. I owned it all. I learned and re-learned. I regulated and co-regulated over and over again. I chose not to retreat. I knew I couldn’t abandon them, even as I tried not to abandon myself.

And slowly, the warmth returned.

REDEFINING MOTHERHOOD — Reclamation and the New Legacy

Sixteen years into motherhood, I was burned out.
I began again by telling the truth: I am burned out. I need help. I need myself back.

I took the risk of healing, even when it looked selfish.
My mantra became:

“I know my daughter may not understand this for a long time, but I have to give her the gift of knowing you can always change your mind. You are never trapped.”

I was raised by women who taught me to stay. To abandon self in the name of loyalty.
But I refused to pass that down to her.  I needed to know I could raise her in a different paradigm, even if I didn’t know how that was going to work.

 FULL CIRCLE — Small Moments, Big Shifts

The other day, I was unloading groceries from my car while my son hovered nearby, waiting to help fill the fridge.
I had the realization that I had never once helped my mom unload a full trunk of groceries for the week.  Money was scarce when I was growing up, and food even scarcer.

I realized I had changed something fundamental about my family.  I left an unbearable marriage with no financial support and rebuilt our lives from bones outward—on my terms.

Now, we live in a clean and comfortable little home with food in the cupboards and, more importantly, regulated nervous systems and consistent connection. The peace we share required a radical shift.

The path here was terrifying and uncertain.  The only sure guide was my heart. 
When I sit at the dining table and listen to my son talk about college—about the humble car I bought him, the one I taught him to drive—I can feel it in those bones:

This is real motherhood.

Beyond the material support, I’ve shown my children what courage looks like.
What resilience turns into.
Why honesty and apologies matter.
And that love—real love—is incomplete unless it starts with love for yourself.

Self-love is not abandonment.  It’s Agency.
It is the most radical act of devotion.
And through it, I’ve given them something I never had:
Permission to be whole.

I changed the loose and disorganized narrative I was handed about motherhood.

My children know support and presence.
They know that resilience is messy.
They know you can live your truth and survive it.
They know that thriving is often on the other side of courage.

What if motherhood isn’t about getting it right, but about the paradox of staying in relationship—with your children, AND with yourself?