Today was yet another hard mom day.
One of those days where holding boundaries, especially with my oldest daughter, felt like an uphill battle. We have this pattern that keeps emerging, one that I can trace all the way back to my own nine-year-old self. And while I am trying so hard to meet it with compassion, to pause, to breathe, to respond instead of react, sometimes it’s just hard as shit.
Haha. Which, of course, makes me laugh because now I’m thinking about hard poop. And how that probably means someone isn’t drinking enough water or is consuming too much fiber.
Apparently, even in the middle of my emotional processing, I can find a way to make a poop joke.
Anyway.
All joking aside, I’m proud of myself today. Not because I got everything right. Not because I was the perfectly patient, endlessly compassionate mother I sometimes imagine I should be. But because I’m starting to recognize what’s true for me.
And one of those truths is this: I do not intend to be my daughter’s best friend.
Writing that feels strange. Maybe because there is so much pressure to be the mom your kids can tell everything to, the mom who is always fun, always understanding, always their safe place. And I want to be those things for my children. Of course I do.
But I also know that I am here to raise them.
To help them become kind, compassionate, strong-willed humans who know how to stand up for themselves, take responsibility for their choices, and move through the world with integrity.
And sometimes, that means they aren’t going to like me very much.
Which, if I’m being honest, seems to be happening A LOT lately.
But I keep reminding myself that maybe this is part of the work. Maybe there will be a day when they look back and understand why I held the boundary, why I didn’t give in, why I let them feel disappointed or angry instead of rushing to make everything better.
I keep having faith that it will pay off in the long run.
Right?
I think something clicked during our moment of accountability today. Even if it was only for a second, I saw it in her eyes.
That little look of, Oh shit. Mom’s not bluffing.
And as much as I hope these moments become fewer and farther between, I know my daughter. I know her strong will because, in many ways, I recognize it in myself. I know this dance will continue. We will find ourselves here again, learning and unlearning, pushing and pulling, trying to figure out where one person ends and the other begins.
Which brings me to the question I keep returning to:
What is she here to teach me?
I know one of the lessons is about that age-old question: Do you have a favorite child?
When parents say they love all their children exactly the same, I’m sorry, but I think that’s a bold-faced lie.
Haha.
Maybe it’s not about loving one child more than another. Maybe it’s about how differently each child meets us. How some relationships flow more naturally, while others seem to find every tender, unfinished place inside us.
And I think I’m beginning to understand why my relationship with her can feel so difficult.
It’s the feminine line.
It’s the mother-daughter relationship. The patterns passed down, the things we learned about being a girl, about being loved, about being good, about taking up space. The places where our younger selves are still waiting to be seen.
I can feel how much healing there is still to do.
And just when I think I’ve worked through something, when I convince myself that I’ve finally healed that part of me, my daughter comes along and pulls me into a deeper layer.
Not because she is doing anything wrong. Not because it is her responsibility to heal me. But because motherhood has a way of bringing everything to the surface. There is nowhere to hide when you are standing face-to-face with a little human who somehow knows exactly where your edges are.
And today, I caught myself saying something I’ve said before:
I wish I could be this kind of mom for her.
I wish I could meet her differently. I wish I could stay softer in the hard moments. I wish I could hold the boundary without the internal struggle, without the frustration, without feeling like I’m somehow failing her when she’s upset with me.
But as I sat with that thought, I realized something.
Maybe that sentence isn’t an invitation to wish for a different version of myself.
Maybe it’s an invitation to become her.
To ask myself what that mother looks like. What she believes. How she holds her ground. How she makes room for her daughter’s big feelings without abandoning her own needs in the process.
How she can be firm without being cruel. Compassionate without giving in. Loving without needing to be liked.
And perhaps, most importantly, how she can recognize the nine-year-old girl inside herself without letting that little girl take over the parenting of her own daughter.
Because I was once that little girl, too.
I know there are parts of me that still need tenderness. Parts that still want to be understood, accepted, and loved without having to fight so hard for it. And I wonder how much of our dance is an opportunity for me to learn how to give that to myself, rather than unconsciously looking for it in her.
This is the work, isn’t it?
Not getting it right every time. Not becoming some perfectly healed mother who never loses her patience or questions herself at the end of the day.
Just noticing.
Taking accountability.
Being willing to look at the uncomfortable things and ask what they might be showing me.
So, for now, I’m keeping it simple.
Taking a breath.
Giving myself some grace.
Taking it one day at a time.
I don’t have all the answers today. I’m not entirely sure I handled every moment the way I wish I had. And I know there will be more days when we find ourselves in this same familiar dance.
But I’m here. I’m paying attention. I’m willing to keep looking.
And baby girl, if you ever find your way to these words, I hope you know something.
I love you more than I could ever fully show you. Even on the days when I’m the person you’re most upset with. Even when I have to say no. Even when I have to hold a boundary you don’t understand yet.
My love for you is not measured by how happy I can keep you.
And I hope that one day, when you’re old enough to look back on these years, you’ll know that you were never responsible for making me whole. You were never meant to carry the weight of my healing.
But loving you has invited me to become more whole.
You have shown me places in myself I might never have found otherwise. You have challenged me to grow in ways I never expected. You have made me look at my own childhood, my own patterns, and the kind of woman and mother I want to become.
You have made me a better person.
And I hope, every day, that I am becoming a better mother, too.
Even on the hard poop days.
Love,
Mom 🤍✨
